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THE    WORKS    OF 
THEOPHILE    GAUTIER 

IN   TWENTY-FOUR    VOLUMES 

LIMITED    TO    ONE    THOUSAND 
'  REGISTERED    SETS,  jOF  WHICH 
THIS    IS    NUMBER. 


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THE   WORKS  OF 

:  M     >PHILEG  -_ 

v.i  v.;.ir.  TWENTY-FOUR 

TRANSLATED    AND    KDITED    BY 

i  RQI  LSSOR  F.  C.  ojt  SUMICHKAi;! 
Ofpartfnm:  tf  Fren<ht  HarvtrJ  VnitKrsity 


The  Pr^ocession  of  the  Sacrep  Bu^^l  ''Apis-Osius". 

A ''photogravure  from  a  painting  by  F.  A.  Bridgman 

C  A  Nl   i  > 

AND    OTHEI  IS 


fi    ax  ^'-'^ 


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By  my  granite  shape  of  yore 

Passed  the  priests,  with  stately  pschent. 
And  the  m<istic  boat  upbore ^ 
£mblfmjd  and.mngnififjuiU 


THE   J£NSOr5''^dciETY 

FRINTEn  5    ONLY 

iV  ;  v..  iVi  V    1 


THE  WORKS   OF 

THEOPHILE  GAUTIER 

VOLUME  TWENTY-FOUR 

TRANSLATED    AND    EDITED    BY 

PROFESSOR  F.  C.  de   SUMICHRAST 

Department  of  French,  Harvard  University 

ENAMELS     AND 
CAMEOS 

AND    OTHER    POEMS 

TRANSLATED  BT  AGNES  LEE 


© 


THE   JENSON    SOCIETY 

PRINTED    FOR    MEMBERS    ONLY 
MCMVI 


Copyright,    IQ03,    by 
George  D.   Sproul 


UNIVBRSITY   PRESS    •    JOHN    WILSOK 
AND    SON      •     ^CAMBRIDGE,    U.    S.    A. 


Ubrary 

Contents 


Introduction Page      3 

The  God  and  the  Opal — To  TnioPHiLE  Gautier     **       33 

ENAMELS   AND    CAMEOS 

Preface   

Affinity — A  Pantheistic  Madrigal  .... 
The  Poem  op  Woman  —  Marble  of  Paros  .  . 
A  Study  of  Hands  : 

I     Imperia 

II     Lacenaire 

Variations  on  the  Carnival  of  Venice  : 

I     On  the  Street 

II     On  the  Lagoons 

III  Carnival 

IV  Moonlight 

Symphony  in  White  Major 

Coquetry  in  Death 

Heart's  Diamond 

Spring's  First  Smile 

Contralto 

Eyes  of  Blue 

The  Toreador's  Serenade 

Nostalgia  op  the  Obelisks  : 

I     The  Obelisk  in  Paris 

II     The  Obeusk  in  Luxor 


37 
38 
42 

46 
49 

52 
54 
56 

58 
60 
64 
66 
68 
70 

74 
77 

80 
84 


1569267 


CONTENTS 

Veterans  of  the  Old  Guard,  December  15       .    Page     88 

94 
97 
99 

lOI 


Sea-Gloom 

To  A  Rose-coloured  Gown 

The  World  's  Maucious 

Ines  de  las  Sierras  —  To  Petra  Camara  .     .     . 

Odelet,  after  Anacreon 

Smoke      

Apollonu 

The  Bund  Man 

Song 

Winter  Fantasies 

The  Brook 

Tombs  and  Funeral  Pyres 

Bjorn's  Banquet 

The  Watch 

The  Mermaids •     .     . 

Two  Love-Locks 

The  Tea-Rose 

Carmen    

What  the  Swallows  Say — An  Autumn  Song  . 

Christmas 

The  Dead  Child's  Playthings 

After  Writing  my  Dramatic  Review       .     .     . 

The  Castle  of  Remembrance 

Camellia  and  Meadow  Daisy 

The  Fellah  —  A   Water-Colour  by   Princess 

Mathilde 

The  Garret 

The  Cloud 


VIII 


105 

106 
107 
108 
no 
III 

116 
118 

124 

130 
132 

U5 
136 
138 
140 
144 

145 
^\7 
149 
160 

162 
163 
166 


CONTENTS 

The  Blackbird Page  i68 

The  Flower  that  makes  the  Springtime  ...  **      1 70 

A  Last  Wish "173 

The  Dove "174 

A  Pleasant  Evening "      176 

Art "180 

SELECTED    POEMS 

The  Middle  Ages **     185 

The  Captive  Bird *'     1 87 

On  A  Thought  OF  Wordsworth's **      189 

Caryatides **      190 

The  Chimera "191 

The  Encounter **     192 

Versailles **     ^93 

Barcarolle *'      194 

The  Portal **     196 

The  Escorial **     203 

A  King's  Solitude "     204 

The  Laurel  in  the  Generalife  Garden   ...  **     206 

Farewell  to  Poetry **     207 

The  Tulip "     208 

Touch  not  the  Marble "     209 

ALBERTUS,  or  the  soul  and  sin    .  "215 

THE  comedy  of  DEATH "283 


IX 


List  of  Illustrations 

The  Procession  of  the  Sacred  Bull,  "Apis- 
Osiris"     Frontispiece 

Scene  in  a  Smyrna  Coffee  House  .     .     .       Page  142 


Introduction 


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ENAMELS  and  CAMEOS 

and    0  THE  R    POEMS 

dbifcxdfx  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 

Introduction 

THE  divine  gift  of  verse  having  been  denied 
to  the  translator  and  editor  of  this  English 
edition  of  Theophile  Gautier's  works,  he 
has  secured  the  collaboration,  for  this  part 
of  his  task,  of  Mrs.  Agnes   Lee,  who  has  undertaken 
and  carried  it  out  with  care  and  skill. 

To  translate  any  author  satisfactorily,  that  is,  in 
such  a  manner  that  his  literary  quality  shall  become 
apparent  to  the  reader,  is,  in  all  conscience,  a  sufficiently 
difficult  matter  when  prose  alone  is  in  question.  But 
when  to  the  obstacles  to  be  overcome  are  added  the 
peculiarly  characteristic  features  of  verse,  the  difficulty 
becomes  wellnigh  insurmountable. 

In  the  case  of  French  verse  in  general  it  may  be 
possible  occasionally  to  render,  with  fair  approach  to 
accuracy  combined  with  retention  of  the  poetic  form, 
the  meaning  of  the  author,  and  with  it  the  more  strik- 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

ing  features  of  the  style.  It  never  can  be  an  easy 
task,  or  one  that  when  accomplished  satisfies  fully  the 
exacting  demands  of  the  cultured  reader,  more  partic- 
ularly of  the  translator,  if  the  latter,  as  is  at  times  the 
case,  is  endowed  with  a  literary  and  artistic  conscience. 
The  very  character  of  French  verse  presents  in  itself 
an  obstacle  that  can  but  rarely  be  overcome.  The 
total  lack  of  accent,  as  generally  understood,  and  the 
consequent  dependence  upon  rime,  increase  the  ardu* 
ousness  of  the  task. 

Then,  with  all  poetry,  it  is  impossible  to  retain  in 
a  version,  however  skilful  and  loving,  that  flower,  that 
essence,  subtle,  delicate,  magical,  which,  like  the  down 
on  butterfly's  wing,  vanishes  the  instant  it  is  touched. 
It  is  impossible,  or  wellnigh  so,  to  reproduce  in  one 
tongue  the  mysterious  and  deep  harmony,  the  sweet, 
elusive  melody  of  another.  It  is  impossible  to  preserve 
that  peculiar  warmth  of  colour,  that  flushing  of  hue 
which  charm  in  the  original,  and  the  loss  of  which, 
while  it  may  not  be  noted  by  the  reader  unacquainted 
with  the  language  in  which  the  original  is  written, 
nevertheless  so  far  disfigures  the  translation  and  makes 
it  perforce  unfaithful.  With  the  best  intentions  in 
the    world,  with  the    liveliest  desire    to   reproduce  in 


irdb  i:  i:  ir  db  db  i: :!:  irdbtlr  Jrirsb^dbdbdbdb^lr  db  tirdb 

INTRODUCTION 

English  the  characteristics  of  the  French,  with  the 
most  thorough  knowledge  of  the  idioms  and  turns  of 
the  one  and  the  other  tongue,  the  artist  who  seeks  to 
transpose  from  the  one  language  into  the  other  must 
fain  confess  that  it  is  after  all  but  a  paraphrase  — 
however  excellent,  however  accurate  —  that  has  been 
produced. 

More  especially  must  this  be  true  of  Theophile 
Gautier's  work  in  verse.  An  artist  himself  in  the  most 
precise  sense  of  the  word,  he  was  a  believer  in  and  an 
apostle  of  form.  Words  were  not  mere  aggregations 
of  letters  or  syllables,  having  each  and  all  a  definite 
meaning  attached  to  them  and  nothing  more.  They 
were  not  simply  a  means,  when  assembled,  of  com- 
municating ideas.  They  had  qualities  and  properties 
of  their  own  —  intimately,  essentially  their  own  —  which 
gave  them  a  value  wholly  apart  from  any  usefulness 
they  might  possess  as  replacing  the  primitive  language 
of  signs.  They  were  full  of  colour,  they  were  colour  ; 
they  were  full  of  music,  they  were  music's  self;  they 
were  sculpture  and  they  were  architecture ;  they  were 
metal,  and  they  were  stuffs  of  richest  loom,  —  silk  and 
satin,  gauze  and  lawn,  velvet  and  brocade  ;  they  were 
gems  and  stones  of  purest  ray  serene  ;  they  blazed  with 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

internal  fires ;  they  were  refulgent  with  inward  glow ; 
they  burned  with  dull  flame  and  shone  with  scintillation 
resplendent.  No  precious  metal,  no  pearl  of  finest 
orient  but  was  to  be  found  among  them.  Every  shade 
and  hue  of  colour,  every  sound  and  note  of  music  was 
given  out  by  them.  They  had  properties  of  their  own 
that  naught  could  destroy,  and  the  poet's  business  it 
was  to  discover  these,  to  turn  them  to  use.  Baude- 
laire, whose  talent  Gautier  so  thoroughly  understood 
and  so  well  described,  said  in  his  poem  entitled 
"  Correspondences  "  :  — 

**  Like  long-drawn  echoes  that  in  the  distance  mingle  in  dark, 
abysmal  harmony,  vast  as  night's  self  and  vast  as  the  light,  per- 
fumes and  colours  and  sounds  correspond." 

Gautier  did  not  go  so  far ;  he  was  not  a  Symbolist, 
though  he  did  believe  in  *'  correspondences,"  without 
the  feeling  for  and  gift  of  which,  he  maintained,  no 
man  could  be  a  true  poet.  Words  did  possess  a  music 
of  their  own,  in  his  belief,  and  he  has  many  a  time 
proved  the  fact  in  his  own  verse  ;  they  also  possessed 
a  colour  of  their  own,  and  painter  as  he  was  he  utilised 
this  property  over  and  over  again  ;  they  had  a  sono- 
rousness of  their  own,  and  like  Hugo,  he  knew  how  to 
avail  himself  of  it.     But  it  cannot  be  said  of  him  that 


INTRODUCTION 

he  used  words  in  the  way  in  which  the  Symbolists  and 
Decadents  used  them  ;  he  did  not  force  them  to  the 
same  extent,  and  was  content  to  bring  out  that  which 
was  plainly  or  subtly  visible  or  audible  in  them  to  the 
artistic  eye  and  ear.  It  was  the  sense  of  vision  which 
he  especially  cultivated,  never  having  forgotten  his  early 
training  in  that  line  when  he  studied  painting.  He 
beheld  particularly  the  exterior  world,  and  no  one  has 
surpassed  him  in  his  descriptions  of  it.  Here  again  it 
it  was  his  painter  sense  that  stood  him  in  such  good 
stead.  He  had  learned  to  look,  and  having  seen  to 
reproduce.  His  poems  are  full  of  admirable  examples 
of  vivid  descriptions  of  scenery  and  landscape  ;  of  vast 
prospects  and  of  "bits."  He  has  what  Brunetiere 
called  "  intense  impressions  of  art  j "  he  paints  in 
words  to  a  degree  and  with  a  power  and  skill  un- 
surpassed in  any  other  works  of  the  period.  One  has 
to  come  down  to  Leconte  de  Lisle,  one  of  his  own  dis- 
ciples, to  meet  with  any  word  paintings  equalling  his 
in  perfection  and  strength  and  vividness. 

Now  these  very  qualities  make  the  translation  of  his 
poems  into  any  other  tongue  an  exceedingly  difficult 
and  arduous  task.  It  is  not  possible,  simply,  to  say  in 
another  language  just  what  he  says  in  his  rich,  ample. 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

varied  French.  It  is  not  possible  to  reproduce  the 
cfFects  he  sought  and  attained,  for  English  is  so  dif- 
ferent from  Gautier's  mother-tongue  that  not  the 
greatest  poet  could  render  in  it  just  the  effects  that  he 
obtained,  and  obtained  by  most  diligent  labour  and  con- 
tinual polishing  and  repolishing  of  the  form  in  which  he 
cast  his  thought. 

"Form  is  everything,"  he  says  in  an  article  on  one 
of  Hugo's  dramas,  "  no  matter  what  may  have  been 
prated  on  the  subject."  And  to  the  cult  of  form  he 
applied  himself  with  singular  diligence  and  perseverance, 
attaining  effects  so  remarkable  as  to  be  the  delight  of 
the  ear  attuned  to  the  melody  and  beauteousness  of 
French  verse.  It  is  always  beauty  he  is  in  search 
of,  for  he  holds  it  superior  to  all  else  on  earth  —  and 
possibly  in  heaven.  He  admires  Baudelaire  largely 
because  that  poet  is  a  worshipper  of  the  beautiful  and 
succeeds  in  finding  it  even  in  the  horrible  and  the 
repulsive.  He  holds  that  beauty  is  an  end  in  itself, 
and  he  repels  the  proposition  that  every  piece  of  literary 
or  artistic  work  should  have  a  practical  or  at  least  a 
moral  purpose. 

Poetry,  to  him,  was  not  meant  to  be  used  as  a 
vehicle  for  instruction  in  morals,  in  science,  in  aught 

8 


INTRODUCTION 

that  was  positive,  utilitarian,  workaday,  commonplace. 
It  was  a  divine  tongue  in  which  beauteous  things 
were  to  be  said ;  a  tongue  which  the  vulgar  could  not 
and  need  not  understand,  but  which  was  comprehended 
of  all  in  whom  burned,  however  faintly,  the  sacred  fire. 
He  was  at  one  with  Alfred  de  Musset  when  the  latter 
exclaimed  :  — 

"It  is  verse  I  love  above  all  —  the  language  immortal. 
Perchance  't  is  blasphemy,  so  let  me  whisper  it  low  :  I  love 
it  to  madness.  It  has  this  great  advantage,  that  never  were 
fools  able  to  appreciate  it ;  that  it  comes  to  us  from  God,  — 
that  it  is  limpid  and  beauteous ;  that  the  world  hears  it,  bat 
speaks  it  not." 

He  thoroughly  endorsed  every  word  in  the  following 
passage  from  Baudelaire,  who  looked  upon  him  as  his 
master :  — 

•*If  a  man  will  only  take  the  trouble  to  examine  himself, 
...  he  will  perceive  that  poetry  can  have  no  other  end 
than  itself;  it  cannot  have  any  other,  and  no  poem  can  be  so 
great,  so  noble,  so  truly  worthy  of  being  called  a  poem,  as 
that  which  has  been  written  solely  for  the  pleasure  of  writing 
a  poem. 

**  I  do  not  mean  to  imply  that  poetry  does  not  ennoble 
manners,  —  I  desire  to  be  correctly  understood,  —  or  that  its 
final  result  is  not  the  elevation  of  man  above  sordid  interests  : 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

that  would  be  plainly  absurd.  What  I  say  is  that  if  the  poet 
has  sought  to  attain  a  moral  end,  he  has  lessened  his  poetic 
force,  and  it  is  not  imprudent  to  wager  that  his  work  will  be 
poor.  Poetry  cannot  assimilate  itself  to  science  or  morals, 
under  pain  of  death  or  forfeiture.  Itself,  not  truth,  is  its  end. 
**  The  principle  of  poetry  is  strictly  and  simply  human 
aspirarion  to  a  higher  beauty,  and  the  principle  manifests  itself 
in  enthusiasm,  in  rapture  of  the  soul,  —  an  enthusiasm  which 
is  wholly  independent  of  passion,  the  intoxication  of  the  heart, 
and  of  truth,  the  food  of  reason.  For  passion  is  a  natural 
thing,  too  natural  indeed  not  to  introduce  an  unpleasant,  a  dis- 
cordant tone  into  the  domain  of  pure  beauty  ;  too  femiliar 
and  too  violent  not  to  scandalise  the  pure  desires,  the  gracious 
melancholy,  and  the  noble  despair  that  inhabit  the  supernatural 
regions  of  poetry . ' ' 

Poems  of  passion  are  not  to  be  met  with  in  Gautier's 
work.  He  has  none  that  recall  the  cries  of  despair 
and  ardour  that  burst  forth  from  de  Musset,  the  tender 
regrets  and  lamentations  of  Lamartine.  He  has  writ- 
ten some  love  poems ;  he  has  indulged,  as  young 
Romanticists  all  did,  in  addresses  to  fair  female  forms, 
often  as  not  purely  ideal ;  he  has  talked  love,  but  it  has 
never  swayed  and  tossed  him  about  on  the  ocean  of 
passion.  For  him  no  Graziella,  no  Elvira,  no  Julia 
appears  to  have  existed ;  in  his  heart  there  was  little 

10 


INTRODUCTION 

room  for  aught  else  than  the  worship  of  beauty  under 
its  various  forms ;  women  appealed  to  him  In  so  far 
as  they  were  partial  incarnations  of  that  divine  prin- 
ciple, but  they  do  not  appear  to  have  affected  him  as 
much  as  the  beauty  of  statues  or  paintings,  the  glory 
of  landscapes,  or  the  majesty  of  architecture.  Music 
moved  him,  but  the  artist  herself  was  of  secondary 
importance.  Dancing  delighted  him,  but  the  dancer 
was  subordinate  to  the  performance  itself. 

So  he  never  sang  woman  as  woman  ;  he  has  written 
that  incomparable  poem :  "  The  Poem  of  Woman," 
but  he  makes  clear  his  inmost  thought  in  the  sub-title : 
"  Marble  of  Paros."  He  preferred,  we  know,  the 
statue  to  the  living  form  ;  the  statue  was  more  perfect, 
approached  more  nearly  to  the  ideal  of  beauty,  it  was 
more  idealised,  and  therefore,  in  his  view,  truer  to  the 
fact.     This  he  dwells  on  in  his  account  of  Baudelaire  :  — 

"  Baudelaire  .  .  .  believed  art  should  be  absolutely  auton- 
omous, and  refused  to  admit  that  poetry  had  any  end  other 
than  itself,  or  any  mission  to  fulfil  other  than  that  of  exciting  in 
the  reader's  mind  the  sensation  of  the  Beautiful,  in  the  strict- 
est meaning  of  the  word.  .  .  .  He  banished  from  poetry, 
to  the  utmost  of  his  power,  eloquence,  passion,  and  the  too 
accurate  represcnution  of  truth.     Just  as  one  must  not  use  in 

II 


dbx  X  TIT  X  db  tb  ^  x  ^  X  vx  vtfcdbdbtirdbtl?  V  X 

ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

sculpture  parts  cast  directly  from  the  living  model,  so  he  insisted 
that  before  being  admitted  into  the  sphere  of  art  every  object 
should  undergo  a  metamorphosis  that  should  fit  it  for  that 
subtle  realm,  by  idealising  it  and  removing  it  from  trivial  truth." 

That   is   his  own   creed,  put    into    practice    by    an 

admirer  and    a    follower.     It   is  the  cult  of  Art   for 

Art's  own  sake,  without  utilitarian  or  moral  motive.     It 

is  the  worship  of  pure  beauty,  and  it  is  the  thought 

that   inspired  Leconte   de   Lisle,  the  impeccable  poet, 

equally  with  Gautier,  when  he  sang  the  wondrous  song 

of  ^''  Hypatia  "  :  — 

"  Sleep,  O  fair  victim,  within  our  souls'  closed  depths, 
Wrapped  in  thy  virgin  shroud  and  with  lotus  crowned. 
Sleep !    For  hideous  ugliness  of  the  world  is  queen. 
And  no  longer  we  know  the  road  that  to  Paros  leads. 

**  The  gods  are  turned  to  dust  ;  the  earth  is  mute  ; 
No  sound  from  thy  deserted  heav'n  shall  e'er  be  heard. 
Sleep!  But,  living  within  him,  sing  to  the  poet's  heart 
Of  sacred  Beauty  the  melodious  hymn. 

"  For  it  alone  survives,  unchanged,  eternal. 
Scattered  by  Death  the  quaking  worlds  may  be  — 
But  forth  doth  Beauty  flame,  and  all  in  her  revives  ; 
Under  her  white  feet  still  the  worlds  revolve." 

This  conception,  this  purpose  Gautier  faithfully  ad- 
hered to  throughout  his  career,  and  in  face  of  the  reproach, 

12 


INTRODUCTION 

addressed  to  him  even  during  his  lifetime,  that  he  lost 
sight  of  great  moral  notions.  He  disclaimed  being 
a  moralist,  a  student  of  manners,  an  inquirer  into  the 
possibilities  of  elevating  the  human  race  by  spreading 
the  principles  of  philosophy,  total  abstinence,  religion, 
or  anything  akin  thereto,  and  desired  simply  to  be  an 
artist,  to  sing  melodiously  of  beauty,  and  to  reproduce 
it  as  fully  as  he  might  in  all  his  works. 

Poetry  was  a  thing  apart ;  the  gift  of  writing  verse 
was  not  merely,  in  his  opinion,  the  power  of  expressing 
admirably  and  feelingly,  of  imparting  the  sense  of 
colour  and  melody,  of  communicating  rhythm  and 
number  to  the  phrase,  or,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
mere  power  of  riming,  a  gift  possessed,  as  he  has  truly 
remarked,  by  very  mediocre  people.  It  is  not  enough 
to  align  words,  to  make  the  final  letters  of  each  line 
repeat  a  given  sound.  There  is  more  than  this  in  real 
poetry,  and  it  was  real  poetry  alone  that  he  cared  for 
or  wrote.  It  involved,  not  necessarily  ideas — com- 
monplace or  original  —  but  the  bringing  out  of  the 
subject  the  fullest  measure  of  perfection  of  form  of 
which  it  was  susceptible.  Form  is  indispensable,  in  his 
theory  of  poetry.  It  is  the  very  touchstone  of  merit ; 
the  very   test   of  existence.     The  careful  working  out 

13 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

of  the  form,  at  least  the  producing  of  perfect  form 
with  or  without  labour,  alone  marked  out  the  man 
as  a  poet.  Without  form  he  was  only  a  poetaster ; 
with  it,  a  true  singer. 

This  view  gives,  apparently,  over-importance  to  verse. 
Whether  it  do  so  or  not,  it  is  unquestionably  the  view 
held  by  Gautier.  *'  It  is  the  commonest  thing  in  the 
world,  at  the  present  time,"  he  says,  "  to  assume  that 
what  is  poetical  is  poetry.  The  two  have  nothing 
in  common.  Fenelon,  Jean-Jacques  Rousseau,  Ber- 
nardin  de  Saint-Pierre,  Chateaubriand,  George  Sand  are 
poetical,  but  they  are  not  poets ;  that  is  to  say,  they 
are  incapable  of  writing  verse,  even  mediocre  verse, 
a  special  gift  possessed  by  people  greatly  inferior  in 
merit  to  these  illustrious  masters.  To  attempt  to  sepa- 
rate verse  from  poetry  is  a  modern  piece  of  folly  that 
tends  to  nothing  less  than  the  destruction  of  art  itself." 

It  is  curious  that  Gautier,  once  the  contemner  of 
Boileau,  had  become,  by  the  time  he  penned  these 
words,  almost  a  champion  of  the  critic's  or  at  least 
a  defender  and  advocate  of  one  of  the  principles  upon 
which  Boileau  laid  most  stress  :  the  absolute  necessity 
of  improving  the  form  until  perfection  has  been  attained. 
Not  every  kind  of  verse  satisfied   his  exacting  taste ; 


INTRODUCTION 

it  had  to  be  the  very  best,  wrought  out  with  infinite 
care,  for  it  is  not  given  to  every  one  to  produce 
superb,  perfect  lines  without  an  effort,  as  was  the  case 
with  Victor  Hugo,  who  uttered  them  as  naturally  and 
as  easily  as  he  breathed.  Gautier  held  to  the  need  of 
improving  the  work,  and  the  first  cast  of  the  form  was 
not  necessarily  the  best.  So  the  poet  must  work  over 
his  verse  until  he  attained  perfection.  This  meant 
verse  of  a  higher  quality  than  the  average  verse  of 
Lamartine  and  Alfred  de  Musset,  neither  of  whom 
troubled  much  about  the  minutiae  upon  which  Gautier 
lays  stress.  ''  When  a  poet  is  in  question,"  he  says 
again,  "  the  manner  in  which  his  verse  is  wrought  is 
a  matter  of  considerable  importance  and  worth  study- 
ing, for  it  constitutes  in  great  part  the  intrinsic  value 
of  his  verse.  It  is  the  stamp  with  which  he  mints  his 
gold,  his  silver  or  copper."  That  amounts  to  saying 
that,  while  the  value  of  the  poem,  outside  its  form, 
must  necessarily  vary  with  the  variation  in  the  talent, 
genius,  and  inspiration  of  the  writer,  in  no  case  can 
the  writer  dispense  with  seeking  excellence  of  form, 
which  is  to  constitute  a  great  part  of  the  worth  of  his 
work.  "  No  doubt,"  he  continues,  "  these  minutiae 
will  seem  very  frivolous  to  utilitarians,  progressive  and 

15 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

practical,  or  simply  clever  men,  who  think  with  Stend- 
hal, that  verse  is  a  childish  form  that  was  good  enough 
for  the  primitive  ages,  but  who  insist  that  poetry  should 
be  written  in  prose,  as  beseems  an  age  of  common- 
sense.  Yet  it  is  precisely  these  minutiae  that  cause 
verse  to  be  good  or  bad,  and  that  distinguish  the  true 
poet  from  the  sham." 

The  instrument  of  verse,  words,  with  their  infinite 
capabilities,  was  therefore  a  matter  of  importance  to 
him,  and  on  the  study  of  words  and  the  resources  they 
offer  to  the  poet  he  bestowed  infinite  time  and  thought. 
Gifted  with  a  vivid  sense  of  colour,  with  an  intense 
sense  of  form,  with  a  delicate  appreciation  of  sound, 
he  naturally  enough  sought  to  turn  to  account  every 
word  that  could  be  made  to  yield  an  effect  in  any  one  of 
these  ways.  It  was  herein  he  differed  from  Boileau, 
to  whom  the  separation  of  the  nobler  from  the  more 
common  words  was  a  matter  of  moment.  To  Gautier 
all  words  were  good,  if  only  they  rendered  his  thought. 
He  wished  to  attain  accuracy  in  expression ;  to 
produce  just  the  effect  he  sought,  and  not  another, 
or  one  merely  analogous  to  it.  Hence  his  vocabulary 
was  enriched  with  many  terms  drawn  from  the  most 

varied  sources.     There   are   numberless  examples  of 

_ 


INTRODUCTION 

this  in  "  Enamels  and  Cameos,"  though  the  reader  un- 
acquainted with  the  correct,  restrained,  stilted  mode  of 
speech  of  the  pseudo-classicists  may  not  notice  them. 
And  indeed  in  English  these  words  would  not  attract 
attention. 

In  one  of  his  conversations,  reported  by  £mile 
Bergerat,  —  "  Theophile  Gautier  :  Entretiens,  Souve- 
nirs et  Correspondance,"  —  Gautier  discussed  the 
nature  and  value  of  his  work  in  enriching  the  language 
of  French  poetry,  and  claimed  the  "  modest  praise  of 
being  a  philologist."  He  believed  he  had  fashioned,  for 
the  poets  who  were  coming  after  him,  a  remarkable 
instrument  capable  of  rendering  every  shade  of  feeling, 
every  gradation  of  hue  and  colour,  every  sound  of  music 
and  melody.  He  dilated  on  the  importance,  on  the 
necessity  which  exists  for  thought  to  be  possessed  of 
a  garment  of  words  suited  to  itself:  — 

*'  So  soon  as  it  finds  in  words  a  garment  fitted  to  it,  it 
straightway  goes  along  easily  ;  and  if  the  words  be  elegant  of 
cut  and  rich  in  colour,  it  grows  bolder  and  triumphant,  for 
when  beauteous  and  fitly  attired,  it  feels  that  it  is  more  wel- 
come and  is  received  into  better  society.  Then  if  so  be 
a  poet  fastens  to  its  feet  the  two  sonorous  wings  of  rime,  it 
takes  its  flight  and  soars  on  high." 

17 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

This  view  recalls  that  set  forth  by  Victor  Hugo  in 
the  interesting  and  highly  personal  poem  entitled 
"  Reply  to  an  Indictment,"  in  which  he  relates  the 
part  he  played  in  the  linguistic  revolution :  — 

"Then,  a  brigand  I,  — I  came  ;  I  shouted  :  Why  should 
these  ever  go  before  and  those  behind  ever  be  ?  Then,  upon 
the  Academy,  the  old  beldame,  spreading  her  skirts  to  shelter 
the  terrified  tropes,  and  upon  the  battalions  of  alexandrines 
in  squares,  I  blew  a  blast  of  revolt.  The  old  dictionary  I 
crowned  with  Liberty's  red  cap.  ...  I  stormed  and  de- 
molished the  Bastile  of  rimes.  I  did  more  :  I  smashed  every 
iron  fetter  that  bound  the  common  words,  and  I  drew  forth  from 
hell  the  old  ones,  long  damned,  legions  of  the  nether  depths. 
I  pulled  down  the  spirals  of  periphrases,  and  mingled,  con- 
founded, laid  flat  under  heaven's  vault,  the  alphabet,  that  sombre 
tower  which  uprose  out  of  Babel ;  for  well  I  knew  that  the 
wrathful  hand  that  sets  the  words  free,  to  thought  restores  its 
liberty." 

Gautier  had  this  in  mind  when  he  said  further,  in 

that    same   conversation :  "  My  share  in  that   literary 

revolution  was  plainly  indicated.     I  was  the  painter  of 

the  company.     I  hurried  forth  to  conquer  adjectives  ;  I 

dug  up  lovely,  even  admirable  ones,  that  henceforth 

man  cannot  do  without.     I  foraged  on  all  hands  in  the 

sixteenth  century,  to  the  horror  of  the  subscribers  to 

_ 


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INTRODUCTION 

the  Theatre-Fran^ais,  of  members  of  the  French 
Academy,  of  Touquet-snufF-boxes  and  wan-faced  bour- 
geois, as  Petrus  hath  it.  I  returned  with  my  basket 
full,  with  sheaves  and  splendours.  I  put  upon  the 
palette  of  style  every  hue  of  dawn  and  every  tint  of 
sunset ;  I  have  given  you  back  red,  dishonoured  by 
political  wire-pullers  ;  I  have  written  poems  in  white 
major,  and  when  I  saw  that  the  result  was  good, 
that  the  writers  of  my  kith  and  kin  were  hastening 
after  me  and  that  the  professors  were  yowling  in  their 
chairs,  I  formulated  my  famous  axiom :  *■  He  whom 
a  thought,  even  the  most  complex,  a  vision,  were  it 
the  most  apocalyptical,  surprises  unprovided  with  words 
to  render  it,  is  not  a  writer.'  And  the  goats  were 
separated  from  the  sheep,  and  the  minions  of  Scribe 
from  the  disciples  of  Hugo,  in  whom  all  genius  re- 
sides.    Such  was  my  part  in  the  conquest." 

Never  was  Gautier  surprised  without  a  word. 
Never  did  he  lack  just  the  right  expression  to  pro- 
duce the  effect  he  sought,  whether  of  colour,  of  sound, 
or  of  form.  Two  poems,  among  others,  in  this  vol- 
ume, may  be  cited  as  examples  of  his  marvellous 
command  of  language,  his  keen  discernment  of  the 
exact  value  of  each  word,  and  his  intensity  of  vision. 

19 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

They    are    the  "  Symphony    in    White    Major "  and 

"  The  Obelisk  in  Luxor."     These  may  also  serve  as 

instances  of  the    absolute    impossibility    of   rendering 

into  any  other  language  the  exquisite  impression  made 

by  the  originals  and  the    perfection    of   form    which 

marks  them.     The    exigencies    of  English    verse  are 

not  compatible  with  the  beauties  of  the  French,  and 

the  utmost  artistic  effort  must  fail  to  reproduce  exactly 

the  infinitely  strong    yet    delicate    fashioning    of    the 

stanzas,  the  wondrous  variety  of  whiteness  in  the  one, 

the  glow  of  intensest   colour  and  light  in  the  other. 

The  rhythm  is  perfect,  so  also  the  rime,  and  the  music 

of  each  poem  is  marvellous.     Take  these  stanzas  from 

«  The  Obelisk  in  Luxor"  :  — 

"  Je  veille,  unique  sentlnelle 
De  ce  grand  palais  devaste, 
Dans  la  solitude  etemelle, 
En  face  de  Timmensite. 

"  A  r  horizon  que  rien  ne  borne, 
Sterile,  muet,  infini, 
Le  desert  sous  le  soleil  mornc, 
Deroule  son  linceul  jauni. 

*•  Au-dessus  de  la  terre  nue, 
Le  ciel,  autre  desert  d'azur, 
Ou  jamais  ne  flotte  une  nue, 
S'etale  implacablement  pur. 

20 


INTRODUCTION 

«•  Le  Nil,  dont  I'eau  morte  s'etame 
D^une  pellicule  de  plomb, 
Luit,  ride  par  T  hippopotame, 
Sous  un  jour  mat  tombant  d' aplomb  j 

*•  Et  les  crocodiles  rapaces, 
Sur  le  sable  en  feu  des  ilots, 
Demi-cuits  dans  leurs  carapaces, 
Se  pament  avec  des  sanglots. 

"Immobile  sur  son  pied  grele, 
L'  ibis,  le  bee  dans  son  jabot, 
DechifFre  au  bout  de  quelque  stele 
Le  cartouche  sacre  de  Thot." 

How  is  it  possible  to  reproduce  by  a  translation  into 
any  other  European  tongue  just  the  effect  attained  here? 
Undoubtedly  the  meaning,  the  general  idea,  the  im- 
pression of  tremendous  loneliness  and  suffocating  heat 
may  be,  is  conveyed,  but  the  form  escapes  the  most 
skilful  treatment  and  vanishes  as  the  morning  mist 
before  the  hot  sun  of  summer. 

It  is  plain  that  the  effort  to  translate  a  poet  into 
another  tongue  than  his  own  is  to  court  defeat  at  the 
outset,  yet  it  was  impossible  to  present  an  edition  of 
Gautier  to  the  public  without  including  in  it  some  part, 
at  least,  of  his  verse. 

One  advantage  the  translation  possesses:  it  proves 

21 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

that  Gautier  was  not  so  wholly  devoid  of  ideas  as 
hostile  critics,  mayhap  deaf  to  the  singular  charm  of 
his  verse,  have  maintained.  The  poems  in  their  Eng- 
lish dress  interest ;  Gautier  has  delightful  comparisons, 
novel  views  of  things,  unexpected  contrasts,  and  these 
are  not  lost.  Further,  it  is  interesting  to  note  how 
subjects  that  would  never  strike  the  average  mind  as 
susceptible  of  being  turned  into  a  vehicle  for  beautiful 
verse  are  after  all  susceptible  of  poetic  treatment  if  only 
a  thorough  artist  takes  hold  of  them.  "  The  Watch," 
"  Love  Locks,"  "  After  Writing  my  Dramatic  Review," 
and  "  A  Pleasant  Evening,"  do  not  appear  to  be  poeti- 
cal subjects,  yet,  in  French  at  least,  there  is  an  un- 
deniable charm  about  every  one  of  these  poems,  and 
each  is  a  splendid  instance  of  difficulties  surmounted, 
apparently,  with  the  greatest  ease. 

Gautier's  production  in  verse  is  comparatively  limited. 
His  "  Farewell  to  Poetry  "  gives  us  the  reason.  The 
incessant  demands  of  the  newspaper  upon  his  time  and 
talent,  the  need  of  turning  out  a  daily  supply  of  copy 
that  increased  instead  of  lessening,  left  him  no  leisure 
for  the  worship  of  the  Muse.  Ere  he  entered  upon 
his  career  as  a  journalist,  he  had  written  more  than  one 
graceful  and  even  striking  poem.     These  earlier  pro- 

22 


INTRODUCTION 

ductions  were  necessarily  in  the  purest  Romanticist 
taste,  and  the  characteristics  of  that  school  are  markedly 
evident  in  this  part  of  his  work.  Yet,  already  the 
great  artist  that  he  was  manifested  himself,  and  there 
are  numerous  passages  of  infinite  beauty,  wrought  out 
with  utmost  care.  The  subjects  are  drawn  from  the 
plethoric  storehouse  of  the  new  school  —  landscapes, 
reminiscences  of  the  beloved  Middle  Ages,  so  much  in 
fashion  just  then,  dreams  and  reveries,  sentimental 
recollections,  sunsets  and  picturesque  effects,  shudders 
and  orgies,  ghastly  contemplations  of  skeletons  and 
death's-heads,  paeans  in  honour  of  comrades  or  masters, 
—  in  a  word,  all  the  stock  in  trade  with  which  any 
reader  of  the  literature  of  that  period  is  familiar. 

The  Preface  is  interesting,  and  deserves  to  be  tran- 
scribed in  part,  for  already,  in  1832,  he  holds  to  the 
theory  of  Art  for  Art's  sake,  and  maintains  the  useful- 
ness of  Beauty  :  — 

"  To  the  utilitarians,  utopists,  economists,  Saint-Simonists 
and  others  who  may  ask  him  what  is  the  use  of  it  all,  he  will 
answer  :  What  is  the  use  of  it  ?  It  is  beautiful.  Is  not  that 
sufficient  ?  It  is  beautiful,  like  flowers,  and  scents,  and  birds ; 
like  everything  man  has  been  unable  to  divert  to  his  own  use 
and  to  deprave. 

23 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

"  As  a  general  rule,  the  moment  a  thing  becomes  useful,  it 
ceases  to  be  beautiful.  It  becomes  merged  in  positive  life ; 
it  turns  to  prose  from  poetry;  having  been  free,  it  becomes  a 
slave,  —  that  is  art,  all  art  really.  Art  is  liberty,  luxury, 
efflorescence  ;  it  is  the  blossoming  out  of  the  soul  in  idleness. 
Painting,  sculpture,  and  music  subserve  no  useful  purpose  what- 
ever. Gems  carefully  cut,  unique  trifles,  uncommon  orna- 
ments are  mere  superfluities.  Yet  who  would  deliberately  do 
without  them  ?  Happiness  does  not  consist  in  the  possession 
of  the  indispensable  ;  enjoyment  does  not  mean  not  suffering, 
and  the  things  one  least  needs  are  those  that  charm  one  most. 
There  are  and  there  always  will  be  artistic  souls  to  whom  the 
paintings  of  Ingres  and  Delacroix,  and  the  water-colours  of 
Boulanger  and  Decamps  will  appear  more  useful  than  railways 
and  steamships." 

He  described  the  contents  himself,  and  in  so  pic- 
turesque, so  attractive  a  manner  that  the  reader  of  the 
present  day  is  fain  to  read  every  one  of  the  poems  thus 
announced : 

**  There  are,  to  begin  with,  little  home  scenes,  sweet  and 
peaceful  effects,  small  landscapes  after  the  manner  of  the 
Flemish,  quiet  in  touch,  somewhat  subdued  in  tone,  without 
mighty  mountains,  boundless  horizons,  torrents,  or  cataracts. 
Level  plains,  with  cobalt  blue  distances ;  lowly  hills  up  which 
winds  a  path  ;  the  smoke  from  a  cot ;  a  brook  babbling  under 
the  water-lilies ;  a  bush  covered  with  red  berries ;  an  ox-eye 

24 


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INTRODUCTION 

daisy  quivering  dew-laden  ;  a  passing  cloud  casting  a  wave  of 
shadow  over  the  wheat ;  a  stork  settling  on  roof  of  Gothic 
donjon.  That  is  all ;  then,  by  way  of  imparting  life  to  the 
scene,  a  frog  leaping  through  the  reeds,  a  dragon-fly  disport- 
ing itself  in  a  sunbeam,  a  lizard  toasting  itself  in  the  sunshine, 
a  lark  upspringing  from  the  fiirrow,  a  thrush  singing  in  the 
hedgerow,  a  bee  buzzing  and  garnering,  —  the  remembrances 
of  six  months  spent  in  a  lovely  country  district.  Here  and 
there,  as  it  were  a  dawning  of  budding  youth,  a  longing,  a 
tear,  a  few  words  of  love,  a  chaste  sketch  of  a  girl's  profile ; 
a  purely  childlike  poetry,  plump  and  dimpled,  on  which  the 
muscles  do  not  as  yet  show." 

The  poems  themselves  are  already  very  well  written 
verse,  with  the  feeling  for  colour,  picturesqueness, 
sonority,  which  is  to  become  characteristic  of  Theo- 
phile  Gautier.  The  opening  piece,  "  Meditation," 
is  full  of  youthful  freshness  and  of  the  sentiment,  still 
immature,  of  the  brief  life  of  all  things  on  earth. 
"The  Middle  Ages"  reveals  the  strong  hold  which 
that  period  had  taken  upon  the  imagination  of  the 
writer  and  his  contemporaries.  "  A  Landscape  "  is 
marked  by  the  qualities  of  vividness  and  accurate  de- 
scription which  are  to  be  still  more  evident  in  the 
Spanish  poems.  In  "  Wishes,"  the  sensation  of  colour 
is  almost    overpowering,  and    Hugo    himself   had  not 

25 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

then  anything  more  brilliant  and  powerful  in  this  line. 
'*  The  Nightmare  "  is  interesting  as  an  example  of  the 
literature  of  putridity  which  had  adepts  and  admirers, 
but  which  did  not  long  detain  the  poet,  who  has  made 
great  fun  of  it  in  his  "  Daniel  Jovard,"  in  which  he 
used  by  way  of  epigraph,  the  last  four  lines  of  this 
composition.  "  Sunset "  may  well  have  inspired 
Zola's  superb  descriptions  of  the  sunsets  in  Paris,  in 
"  rCEuvre ;  "  and  "  The  View,"  together  with  other 
poems  in  the  same  order,  is  an  admirable  bit  of  descrip- 
tive poetry  well  worthy  of  the  writer  who  was  to  de- 
pict so  truly  and  strikingly  scenes  in  many  lands. 
"  Debauch  "  is  peculiar,  but  very  Romanticist.  It 
should  be  taken  in  conjunction  with  the  tale  entitled 
"  The  Bowl  of  Punch,"  of  which  it  is  a  sort  of  justifi- 
cation, while  the  last  lines  expressly  declare  Gautier's 
reasons  for  what  may  shock  many  people :  — 

"  It  is  poetry  at  least,  a  palette  on  which  glow  innumerable 
different  hues ;  something  clear,  unmistakable ;  something  in 
itself  complete.     It  is  colour,  song,  and  verse  !  " 

In  later  years,  in  the  fulness  of  his  talent  and  in  the 

deliberate  proclamation  of  his  views  and  beliefs,  he  will 

repeat :   "  I  am  quite  ready  at  times  to  have  what   is 

_ 


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INTRODUCTION 

rare  at  the  cost  of  its  being  shocking,  fantastic,  and 
exaggerated." 

The  most  important  of  his  earlier  poetical  works  is 
the  "  semi-diabolical,  semi-fashionable  legend  "  entitled 
"  Albertus,  or  The  Soul  and  Sin ;  a  Theological 
Legend,"  written  in  1831  and  published  the  following 
year.  It  is  a  strange,  weird,  and  at  the  close,  repulsive 
story,  purely  imaginative,  and  in  the  same  line  of 
thought  as  the  famous  '■'■  Vampire,"  which  has  appeared 
in  this  edition.  An  old  hag,  a  sorceress,  a  compounder 
of  philters  and  poisons,  a  caster  of  spells,  a  servant  of 
the  devil,  Veronica  by  name,  dwells  within  a  wood- 
covered,  ruinous  hut,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  a  town 
admirably  painted  in  verse  by  Gautier.  The  descrip- 
tion of  the  beldame's  den  is  superb.  Within  this  den 
she  rubs  herself  all  over,  at  the  witching  hour  of  mid- 
night, with  an  unguent  that  removes  wrinkles  and  every 
mark  of  senility,  and  restores  to  her  the  bloom  and 
loveliness  of  youth.  Thus  transformed,  she  repairs  to 
Leyden,  and  there  leads  the  life  of  the  splendid  courte- 
sans of  the  Renaissance,  which  Gautier  always  de- 
lighted in  portraying  and  referring  to.  She  falls  in 
love  with  a  genuinely  Romanticist  hero,  Albertus, 
whose  portrait  is  thus  limned  for  the  reader :  — 

27 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

*'  Foreign  suns  had  shone  upon  his  brow  and  gilded  with  a 
layer  of  sunburn  his  naturally  pale  Italian  skin.  His  hair, 
rumpled  by  his  fingers,  fell  on  either  side  a  forehead  which 
Gall  would  have  ecstatically  felt  for  six  months,  and  on  which 
he  would  have  written  no  less  than  a  dozen  treatises.  It  was 
an  imperial  brow,  an  artist's,  a  poet's,  and  of  itself  made  up 
half  the  head  ;  'twas  broad  and  ample,  borne  down  by  inspi- 
ration, which,  in  every  wrinkle  furrowed  not  by  age,  conceals 
some  superhuman  hope,  some  mighty  thought,  and  it  plainly 
bore  these  words  inscribed  upon  it :  Force  and  Conviction. 
The  rest  of  the  features  corresponded  with  this  grand  brow. 
Yet  was  there  somewhat  unpleasant  about  them,  and  though 
faultless,  one  could  have  wished  them  different.  Irony  and 
sarcasm  rather  than  genius  gleamed  from  them,  and  the  lower 
part  of  the  face  seemed  to  mock  the  upper.  This  combination 
produced  the  strangest  effect  ;  one  would  have  said  a  demon 
writhing  under  an  angel's  tread  ;  hell  beneath  the  heavens. 
Although  he  had  fine  eyes,  long  dark  eyebrows  growing  finer 
towards  the  temples,  over  the  skin  gliding  as  crawls  a  snake,  a 
fringe  of  quivering  silky  lashes,  the  lion-like  glance,  the  fiery 
flash  that  shot  forth  at  times  from  the  depths  of  those  orbs, 
made  one  involuntarily  shudder  and  turn  pale.  The  boldest 
would  have  looked  down  when  meeting  the  petrifying  Medusa 
glance  he  sought  to  make  gentle.  Over  his  stern  lip,  shadowed 
at  each  end  with  a  small  mustache  daintily  waxed,  a  mocking 
smile  at  times  flitted  ;  but  his  customary  expression  was  one  of 
deep  disdain." 


28 


INTRODUCTION 

It  is  with  this  darksome  dandy  that  Veronica  fails 
desperately  in  love,  and  though  at  first  he  proves  re- 
calcitrant, she  manages  to  attract  him  to  her  house. 
He  yields  to  her  desires,  but  as  midnight  strikes,  the 
glorious  beauty  resumes  her  hag  shape  and  carries  him 
ofF  on  a  broomstick  to  the  witches'  sabbath,  where  the 
most  monstrous  diversions  are  indulged  in  under  the 
presidency  of  Satan  in  person.  The  Devil  sneezes. 
"  God  bless  you,"  unconsciously  utters  Albertus.  And 
straightway  devil,  witches,  demons,  sorcerers  vanish 
into  thin  air,  and  on  the  Appian  Way  peasants  repair- 
ing to  Rome  in  the  early  morn  find  the  dead  body  of  a 
man,  his  back  broken,  his  neck  twisted.  It  is  all  that 
is  left  of  Albertus,  and  the  poem  ends  with  a  mocking 
reference  to  the  morality  which  is  not  clearly  discern- 
ible. But  the  poet  has  had  his  fun  at  the  reader's 
expense;  he  has  startled  and  possibly  shocked  him  — 
he  has  certainly  tried  to  do  so  —  he  has  introduced  ex- 
quisite descriptions,  he  has  indulged  in  wittv  moralising 
that  recalls  Musset's  in  "  Namouna,"  he  has  written 
much  beautiful  verse  —  and  he  is  satisfied.  If  the 
reader  is  not  —  no  matter.  The  object  of  poetry  is 
not  to  satisfy  the  wan-faced,  smooth-shaven  bourgeois, 
the  stupid  Philistine. 

29 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

"The  Comedy  of  Death"  appeared  in  1838,  but 
parts  of  it  had  been  composed  as  early  as  1831. 
There  was  prefixed  to  it  the  piece  entitled  "  The 
Portal,"  and  the  poem  itself  is  divided  into  two  parts, 
"  Life  in  Death,"  and  "  Death  in  Life."  The  poet 
has  wandered  into  a  graveyard  on  All  Saints'  Day,  and 
hears  a  conversation  between  a  dead  woman  and  the 
worm  that  has  started  to  devour  her  flesh.  Returning 
home,  Raphael  Sanzio  appears  to  him,  and  bewails  the 
disappearance  of  art  from  the  world.  Gautier  then 
proceeds  into  the  depths,  and  Faust  tells  him  that 
science  ends  in  nothingness,  and  that  naught  is  worth 
having  on  earth  save  love.  There  then  appears 
Don  Juan,  who  has  known  all  the  joys  that  love  and 
voluptuousness  can  bestow  upon  man,  and  his  conclu- 
sion is  that  love  is  deadly,  and  that  man  should  rather 
seek  knowledge  if  he  desires  to  enjoy  real  life.  Thus 
the  poet  is  left  in  uncertainty. 

Here  again  are  fine  passages,  and  admirable  examples 
of  Gautier's  powers  as  a  writer  of  verse.  The  subject 
itself  is  not  new,  nor  is  the  mode  of  treatment  particu- 
larly striking.  The  main  preoccupation  of  the  author 
is  already  to  turn  out  beautiful  lines,  and  in  this  he 
succeeds. 

30 


INTRODUCTION 

The  Spanish  poems  contain  many  superb  pieces, 
and  here  one  may  revel  in  the  perfection  of  the  descrip- 
tions, in  the  glow  and  splendour  of  colour,  in  the 
sharpness  and  accuracy  of  line  and  contour,  in  the 
faithful  and  intense  reproduction  of  effects.  They  are 
followed  by  a  number  of  poems  written  at  different 
intervals  and  bearing  upon  a  variety  of  subjects  ;  every 
one  of  them  a  model  of  prosody.  And  finally  come 
the  *'  Enamels  and  Cameos." 

This  is  the  typical  collection  of  Gautier's  verse.  It 
first  appeared  in  1852,  and  subsequently  passed  through 
several  editions.  It  is  the  author's  most  characteristic 
work  ;  that  on  which  he  has  bestowed  most  pains, 
fashioning  each  poem  with  infinite  care,  until  he  had 
wrought  out  a  perfect  form.  In  his  account  of  the 
"Progress  of  French  Poetry  since  1830,"  he  thus 
states  the  end  he  sought  to  attain  :  — 

**  The  title,  *  Enamels  and  Cameos,'  indicates  my  intention 
to  treat  slight  subjects  within  a  restricted  space,  sometimes  with 
the  brilliant  colours  of  enamel  upon  a  plate  of  gold  or  copper, 
sometimes  by  using  the  cutter's  wheel  upon  gems  such  as  agate, 
cornelian,  or  onyx.  Every  poem  was  to  be  a  medallion  fit  to 
be  set  in  the  cover  of  a  casket,  or  a  seal  to  be  worn  on  the 
finger — something  recalling  the  copies  of  antique  medals  one 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

sees  in  the  studios  of  painters  or  sculptors.  But  I  did  not 
intend  to  deny  myself  the  pleasure  of  carving  on  the  whitish 
or  reddish  layers  of  the  gems  a  clean  modern  profile,  or  of 
dressing  the  hair  of  Parisian  Greek  women  seen  at  a  recent 
ball  after  the  feshions  of  Syracusan  medals.  The  Alexandrine 
verse  being  too  mighty  for  such  modest  ambition,  I  re-used 
the  octosyllabic  verse  only,  which  I  made  over,  polished  and 
chiselled  with  all  possible  care.  This  form,  by  no  means  a 
new  one,  but  renewed  by  the  rhythm,  the  richness  of  the 
rimes,  and  the  accuracy  to  which  any  workman  may  attain 
when  he  patiently  and  leisurely  works  out  some  small  task, 
was  rather  well  received,  and  octosyllabic  verse  in  quatrains 
became  for  a  time  a  favourite  subject  for  practice  by  young 
poets." 

It  has  been  found  impossible  to  preserve  in  the 
translation  the  form  itself,  for  the  reasons  enunciated  in 
another  part  of  this  introduction.  Nor  was  it  possible 
to  reproduce  the  delicacy  of  the  work  in  French  so 
that  the  reader  might  judge  for  himself  of  the  merit 
of  Gautier  as  an  artist.  Mrs.  Lee,  indeed,  considers 
her  work  simply  a  free  translation,  and  it  is  in  this 
light    that    it    should  be  judged. 

F.    C.    DE    SUMICHRAST. 


32 


dbdfc^r :!:  4:  db  db  4:  db  4r  4?4rdr:l?dbdbdbdb:lrdb?fc  4r  dbdb 

THE   GOD    AND    THE    OPAL 

TO    THEOPHILE    GAUTIRR 

GUjiY  caught  he  from  the  cloudy  and  green  from  earthy 

And  from  a  human  breast  the  fire  he  drew^ 

And  life  and  death  were  blended  in  one  dew, 

A  sunbeam  golden  with  the  morning's  mirth., 

A  wan.,  salt  phantom  from  the  sea.,  a  girth 

Of  silver  from  the  moon.,  shot  colour  through 

The  soul  invisible.,  until  it  grew 

To  fulness^  and  the  Opal  Song  had  birth. 

And  then  the  god  became  the  artisan. 
With  rarest  skill  he  made  his  gem  to  glow., 
Carving  and  shaping  it  to  beauty  such 
That  down  the  cycles  it  shall  gleam  to  man.. 
And  evermore  man's  wonderment  shall  know 
The  perfect  finish.,  the  immortal  touch. 

Agnes  Lee, 


Enamels    and     Cameos 

and  Other   Poems 


ENAMELS  and  CAMEOS 
and     OTHE  R      P  0  E  MS 

PREFACE 

When  empires  lay  riven  apart, 

Fared  Goethe  at  battle  time's  thunder 

To  fragrant  oases  of  art, 

To  weave  his  Divan  into  wonder. 

Leaving  Shakespeare,  he  pondered  the  note 
Of  Nisami,  and  heard  in  his  leisure 

The  hoopoe's  weird  monody  float. 
And  set  it  to  soft  Orient  measure. 

As  Goethe  at  Weimar  delayed 

And  dreamed  in  the  fair  garden  closes. 

And,  questing  in  sun  or  in  shade. 

With  Hafiz  plucked  redolent  roses,  — 

I,  closed  from  the  tempest  that  shook 
My  window  with  fury  impassioned, 

Sat  dreaming,  and,  safe  in  my  nook. 
Enamels  and  Cameos  fashioned. 

37 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 


AFFINITY 

A    PANTHEISTIC    MADRIGAL 

On  an  ancient  temple  gleaming^ 
Two  great  blocks  of  marble  high 

Thrice  a  thousand  years  lay  dreaming 
Dreams  against  an  Attic  sky. 

Set  within  one  silver  whiteness, 
Two  wave-tears  for  Venus  shed, 

Two  fair  pearls  of  orient  brightness, 
Through  the  waste  of  water  sped. 

In  the  Generalife's  fresh  closes. 
By  a  Moorish  light  illumed. 

Two  delicious,  tender  roses 

By  a  fountain  met  and  bloomed. 

In  the  balm  of  May's  bright  weather, 
Where  the  domes  of  Venice  rise. 

Lighted  on  Love's  nest  together 
Two  pale  doves  from  azure  skies. 

38 


AFFINITY 

AH  things  vanish  into  wonder, 
Marble,  pearl,  dove,  rose  on  tree, 

Pearl  shall  melt  and  marble  sunder, 
Flower  shall  fade  and  bird  shall  flee  ! 

Not  a  smallest  part  but  lowly 
Through  the  crucible  must  pass. 

Where  all  shapes  are  molten  slowly 
In  the  universal  mass. 

Then  as  gradual  Time  discloses 
Marbles  melt  to  whitest  skin, 

Roses  red  to  lips  of  roses, 
And  anew  the  lives  begin. 

And  again  the  doves  are  plighted 
In  the  hearts  of  lovers,  while 

Ocean  pearls  are  reunited. 
Set  within  a  coral  smile. 

Thus  affinity  comes  welling ; 

By  its  beauty  everywhere 
Soul  a  sister-soul  foretelling. 

All  awakened  and  aware. 

39 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

Quickened  by  a  zephyr  sunny. 

Or  a  perfume,  subtlewise, 
As  the  bee  unto  the  honey, 

Atom  unto  atom  flies. 

And  remembered  are  the  hours 
In  the  temple,  down  the  blue. 

And  the  talks  amid  the  flowers. 
Near  the  fount  of  crystal  dew. 

Kisses  warm,  and  on  the  royal 

Golden  domes  the  wings  that  beat ; 

For  the  atoms  all  are  loyal. 

And  again  must  love  and  greet. 

Love  forgotten  wakes  imperious. 
For  the  past  is  never  dead, 

And  the  rose  with  joy  delirious 
Breathes  again  from  lips  of  red. 

Marble  on  the  flesh  of  maiden 

Feels  its  own  white  bloom,  and  faint 

Knows  the  dove  a  murmur  laden 
With  the  echo  of  its  plaint, 

40 


xxxxx  xdbxxxxxxtfcxxxxxxxxxv 

AFFINITY 

Till  resistance  giveth  over. 
And  the  barriers  fall  undone. 

And  the  stranger  is  the  lover, 
And  affinity  hath  won  ! 

You  before  whose  face  I  tremble, 
Say  —  what  past  we  know  not  of 

Called  our  fates  to  reassemble, — 
Pearl  or  marble,  rose  or  dove  ? 


41 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 


THE   POEM   OF   WOMAN 

MARBLE    OF   PAROS 

Unto  the  dreamer  once  whose  heart  she  had. 
As  she  was  showing  forth  her  treasures  rare. 
Minded  she  was  to  read  a  poem  fair. 

The  poem  of  her  form  with  beauty  glad. 

First  stately  and  superb  she  swept  before 
His  gazing  eyes,  with  high.  Infanta  mien. 
Trailing  behind  her  all  the  splendid  sheen 

Of  nacarat  floods  of  velvet  that  she  wore. 

Thus  at  the  opera  had  he  watched  her  bend 
From  out  her  box,  her  body  one  bright  flame, 
When  all  the  air  was  ringing  with  her  name. 

And  every  song  made  her  fair  praise  ascend. 

Then  had  her  art  another  way,  for  look  ! 

The  weighty  velvet  dropped,  and  in  its  place 
A  pale  and  cloudy  fabric  proved  the  grace 

Of  every  line  her  glowing  body  took ; 

42 


XXX  X  4?  X  X  V  X  ^TTXwtlrdbdbdbxx 

THE    POEM    OF    WOMAN 

Till  softly  from  her  shoulder  marble-sweet 
The  veil  diaphanous  fell,  the  folds  whereof 
Came  fluttering  downward  like  a  snowy  dove, 

To  nestle  in  the  wonder  of  her  feet. 

She  posed  as  for  Apelles  pridefully, 

A  lovely  flesh  and  marble  womanhood :  — 
Anadyomene,  she  upright  stood 

Naked  upon  the  margent  of  the  sea. 

Fairer  than  any  foam-drops  crystalline, 

Great  pearls  of  Venice  lay  upon  her  breast. 
Jewels  of  milky  wonder  lightly  pressed 

Upon  the  cool,  fresh  satin  of  her  skin. 

Exhaustless  as  the  waves  that  kiss  the  brim, 
U  nder  the  gleaming  moon  of  many  moods. 
Were  all  the  strophes  of  her  attitudes. 

What  fascination  sang  her  beauty's  hymn ! 

But  soon,  grown  weary  of  an  art  antique. 
Of  Phidias  and  of  Venus,  lo  !  again 
Within  another  new  and  plastic  strain 

She  grouped  her  charms  unveiled  and  unique. 

43 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

Upon  a  cashmere  opulently  spread, 
Sultana  of  Seraglio  then  she  lay, 
Laughing  unto  her  little  mirror  gay, 

That  laughed  again  with  lips  of  coral  red  j 

The  indolent,  soft  Georgian,  posturing 
With  her  long,  supple  narghile  at  lip. 
Showing  the  glorious  fashion  of  her  hip. 

One  foot  upon  the  other  languishing. 

And,  like  to  Ingres'  Odalisque,  supine, 
Defying  prurient  modesty  turned  she, 
Displaying  in  her  beauty  candidly 

Wonder  of  curve  and  purity  of  line. 

But  hence,  thou  idle  Odalisque !  for  life 
Hath  now  its  own  fair  picture  to  display  — 
The  diamond  in  its  rare  effulgent  ray,  — 

Beauty  in  Love  hath  reached  its  blossom  rife. 

She  sways  her  body,  bendeth  back  her  head. 

Her  breathing  comes  more  subtle  and  more  fast. 

Rocked  in  her  dream's  alluring  arms,  at  last 
Down  hath  she  fallen  upon  her  costly  bed. 

44 


THE    POEM    OF    WOMAN 

Her  eyelids  beat  like  fluttering  pinions  lit 
Upon  the  darkened  silver  of  her  eyes. 
Her  bright,  voluptuous  glances  upward  rise 

Into  the  vague  and  nacreous  infinite. 

Deck  her  with  sweet,  lush  violets,  instead 

Of  death-flowers  with  their  every  pearl  a  tear  i 
Scatter  their  purple  clusters  on  her  bier, 

Who  of  her  being's  ecstasy  lies  dead. 

And  bear  her  very  gently  to  her  tomb  — 
Her  bed  of  white.     There  let  the  poet  stay, 
Long  hours  upon  his  bended  knees  to  pray. 

When  night  shall  close  around  the  funeral  room. 


45 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

A    STUDY    OF    HANDS 

I 

IMPERIA 

A  SCULPTOR  showed  to  me  one  day 

A  hand,  a  Cleopatra's  lure, 
Or  an  Aspasia's,  cast  in  clay. 

Of  masterwork  a  fragment  pure. 

Seized  in  a  snowy  kiss,  and  fair 

As  lily  in  the  argent  rise 
Of  dawn,  like  whitest  poem  there 

Its  beauty  lay  before  mine  eyes. 

Bright  in  its  pallor  lustreless. 

Reposing  on  a  velvet  bed. 
Its  fingers,  weighted  with  their  dress 

Of  jewels,  delicately  spread. 

A  little  parted  lay  the  thumb,  ? 

Showing  the  undulating  line. 
Beautiful,  graceful,  subtlesome. 

Of  its  proud  contour  Florentine. 

46 


A    STUDY    OF    HANDS 

Strange  hand  !  I  wonder  if  it  toyed 
In  silken  locks  of  Don  Juan, 

Or  on  a  gem-bright  caftan  joyed 
To  stroke  the  beard  of  some  soldan ; 

Whether,  as  courtesan  or  queen, 
Within  its  fingers  fair  and  slight 

Was  pleasure's  gilded  sceptre  seen. 
Or  sceptre  of  a  royal  might ! 

But  sweet  and  firm  it  must  have  lain 
Full  oft  its  touch  of  power  rare 

Upon  the  curling  lion-mane 
Of  some  chimera  caught  in  air. 

Imperial,  idle  fantasy. 

And  love  of  soft,  luxurious  things. 
Frenzies  of  passion,  wondrous,  free. 

Impossible  dream-flutterings ! 

Romances  wild,  and  poesy 

Of  hasheech  and  of  wine,  vain  speeds 
Beneath  Bohemia's  brilliant  sky 

On  unrestrained  and  maddened  steeds ! 

47 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

All  these  were  in  the  lines  of  it. 

Of  that  white  book  with  magic  scrolled, 

Where  ciphers  stood,  by  Venus  writ, 
That  Love  had  trembled  to  behold. 


48 


irdb  ti:  :i:  i; :!: :!:  db  i:  :lr  ^^tlrdbilri;  tfe^bdbtfedb  ^  db  db 

A    STUDY    OF    HANDS 


II 

LACENAIRE 

Strange  contrast  was  the  severed  hand 
Of  Lacenaire,  the  murderer  dead. 

Soaked  in  a  powerful  essence,  and 
Near  by  upon  a  cushion  spread. 

Letting  a  morbid  fancy  win, 

I  touched,  despite  my  loathing  sane, 

The  cold,  hair-covered,  slimy  skin. 
Not  yet  washed  clean  of  deathly  stain. 

Yellow,  uncanny,  mummified. 
Like  to  a  Pharaoh's  hand  it  lay. 

And  stretched  its  faun-shaped  fingers  wide. 
Crisp  with  temptation's  awful  play ; 

As  though  an  itch  for  flesh  and  gold 
Lured  them  to  horrors  yet  to  be, 

Twisting  them  roughly  as  of  old. 
Teasing  their  immobility. 

4  49 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

There  every  vice  and  passion's  whim 
Had  seamed  the  flesh  abundantly 

With  hideous  hieroglyphs  and  grim. 
That  headsmen  read  with  fluency. 

There  plainly  writ  in  furrows  feU, 
I  saw  the  deeds  of  sin  and  soil, 

Scorchings  from  every  fiery  hell 

Wherein  corruptions  seethe  and  boil. 

There  was  a  track  of  Capri's  vice. 
Of  lupanars  and  gaming-scores. 

Fretted  with  wine  and  blood  and  dice. 
Like  ennui  of  old  emperors. 

Supple  and  fierce,  it  had  some  dower 
Of  grace  unto  the  searching  eye. 

Some  brutal  fascination's  power, 
A  gladiator's  mastery. 

Cold  aristocracy  of  crime ! 

No  plane  inured,  no  hammer  spent 
The  hand  whose  task  for  every  time 

Had  but  the  knife  for  implement. 

50 


A    STUDY    OF    HANDS 

The  hand  of  Lacenaire !     No  clue 
Therein  to  labour's  honest  pride  I 

False  poet,  and  assassin  true. 
The  Manfred  of  the  gutter  died  ! 


51 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

VARIATIONS   ON   THE   CAR- 
NIVAL  OF   VENICE 

I 

ON    THE    STREET 

There  is  a  popular  old  air 

That  every  fiddler  loves  to  scrape. 

*T  is  wrung  from  organs  everywhere. 
To  barking  dog  with  wrath  agape. 

The  music-box  has  registered 
Its  phrases  garbled  and  reviled. 

*T  is  classic  to  the  household  bird  j 
Grandmother  learned  it  as  a  child. 

The  trumpet  and  the  clarinet, 

In  dusty  gardens  of  the  dance. 
Blow  it  to  clerk  and  gay  grisette, 

In  shrill,  unlovely  resonance. 

And  of  a  Sunday  swarm  the  folk 

Under  the  honeysuckle  vine. 
Quaffing,  the  while  they  talk  and  smoke, 

The  sun,  the  melody,  the  wine. 

52 


VARIATIONS,  CARNIVAL  OF  VENICE 

It  lurks  within  the  wry  bassoon 

The  blind  man  plays,  the  porch  beneath. 

His  poodle  whimpers  low  the  tune. 
And  holds  the  cup  between  its  teeth. 

The  players  of  the  light  guitar. 

Decked  with  their  flimsy  tartans,  pale. 

With  voices  sad,  where  feasters  are. 
Through  coffee-houses  fling  its  wail. 

Great  Paganini  at  a  sign, 

One  night,  as  with  a  needle's  gleam. 
Picked  up  with  end  of  bow  divine 

The  little  antiquated  theme. 

And,  threading  it  with  fingers  deft. 
He  broidered  it  with  colours  bright. 

Till  up  and  down  the  faded  weft 
Ran  golden  arabesques  of  light. 


53 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 


n 

ON  THE  LAGOONS 

Tra  la,  tra  la,  la,  la,  la,  —  who 
Knows  not  the  theme's  soft  spell  ? 

Or  sad  or  light  or  mock  or  true. 
Our  mothers  loved  it  well. 

The  Carnival  of  Venice !  Long 

Adown  canals  it  came. 
Till,  wafted  on  a  zephyr's  song, 

The  ballet  kept  its  fame. 

I  seem,  whene'er  its  phrase  I  hear, 

A  gondola  to  view. 
With  prow  voluted,  black  and  clear, 

Slip  o'er  the  water  blue ; 

To  see,  her  bosom  covered  o'er 
With  pearls,  her  body  suave, 

The  Adriatic  Venus  soar 
On  sound's  chromatic  wave. 

54 


XXX  XX  xxxxxxxxxxxtfcxxxxxxx 

VARIATIONS,  CARNIVAL  OF  VENICE 

The  domes  that  on  the  water  dwell 

Pursue  the  melody 
In  clear-drawn  cadences,  and  swell 

Like  breasts  of  love  that  sigh. 

My  chains  around  a  pillar  cast, 

I  land  before  a  fair 
And  rosy-pale  facade  at  last. 

Upon  a  marble  stair. 

Oh !  all  dear  Venice  with  her  towers. 

Her  boats,  her  masquers  boon. 
Her  sweet  chagrins,  her  mad,  gay  hours. 

Throbs  in  that  ancient  tunc. 

The  tenuous,  vibrant  chords  that  smite, 

Rebuild  in  subtle  way 
The  city  joyous,  free  and  light 

Of  Canaletto's  day  ! 


55 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 


III 

CARNIVAL 

Venice  robes  her  for  the  ball ; 

Decked  with  spangles  bright, 
Multi-coloured  Carnival 

Teems  with  laughter  light. 

Harlequin  with  negro  mask, 

Tights  of  serpent  hue, 
Beateth  with  a  note  fantasque 

His  Cassander  true. 

Flapping  loose  his  long,  white  sleeve. 

Like  a  penguin  spread. 
Through  a  subtle  semibreve 

Pierrot  thrusts  his  head. 

Sleek  Bologna's  doctor  goes 

Maundering  on  a  bass. 
Punchinello  finds  for  nose 

Quaver  on  his  face. 

56 


XXX  tl?  X  X  db  X  X  xrxxxdbxdbdbtc  dbs?  V  V 

VARIATIONS,  CARNIVAL  OF  VENICE 

Hurtling  Trivellino  fine. 

On  a  trill  intent, 
Scaramouch  to  Columbine 

Gives  the  fan  she  lent. 

Gliding  to  the  tune,  I  mark 

One  veiled  figure  rise. 
While  through  satin  lashes  dark 

Luring  gleam  her  eyes. 

Tender  little  edge  of  lace. 

Heaving  with  her  breath  ! 
"  Under  is  her  own  dear  face !  ** 

An  arpeggio  saith. 

And  beneath  the  mask  I  know 

Bloom  of  rosy  lips, 
And  the  patch  on  chin  of  snow. 

As  she  by  me  trips  ! 


57 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 


IV 

MOONLIGHT 

Amid  the  chatter  gay  and  mad 
Saint  Mark  to  Lido  wafts,  a  tune 

Like  as  a  rocket  riseth  glad 
As  fountain  riseth  to  the  moon. 

But  in  that  air  with  laughter  stirred. 
That  shakes  its  bells  far  out  to  sea. 

Regret,  a  little  stifled  bird. 
Mingles  its  frail  sob  audibly. 

And  in  a  mist  of  memory  clad. 

Like  dream  well-nigh  effaced,  I  view 

The  sweet  Beloved,  fair  and  sad, 

Of  dear,  long-vanished  days  I  knew. 

Ah,  pale  she  is  !     My  soul  in  tears 
An  April  day  remembers  yet :  — 

We  sought  the  violets  by  the  meres. 
And  in  the  grass  our  fingers  met.     . 


VARIATIONS,  CARNIVAL  OF  VENICE 

The  vibrant  note  of  violin 

Is  the  child  voice  that  struck  my  heart. 
Exquisite,  plaintive,  argentine. 

With  all  the  anguish  of  its  dart. 

So  sweetly,  falsely,  doth  it  steal. 

So  cruel,  yet  so  tender,  too. 
So  cold,  so  burning,  that  I  feel 

A  deadly  pleasure  pierce  me  through ; 

Until  my  heart,  an  archway  deep 

Whose  waters  feed  the  fountain's  lip, 

Lets  tears  of  blood  in  silence  weep 
Into  my  bosom  drip  by  drip. 

O  Carnival  of  Venice  !  —  theme 
So  chilling  sad,  yet  ever  warm  ! 

Where  laughter  toucheth  tears  supreme,— 
How  hast  thou  hurt  me  with  thy  charm  ! 


59 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 


SYMPHONY    IN    WHITE 
MAJOR 

In  the  Northern  tales  of  eld, 

From  the  Rhine's  escarpments  high 

Swan-women  radiant  were  beheld. 
Singing  and  floating  by, 

Or,  leaving  their  plumage  bright 
On  a  bough  that  was  bending  low, 

Displaying  skin  more  gleaming  white 
Than  the  white  of  their  down  of  snow. 

At  times  one  comes  our  way,  — 

Of  all  she  is  pallidest. 
White  as  the  moonbeam's  shivering  ray 

On  i  glacier's  icy  crest. 

Her  boreal  bloom  doth  win 

Our  eyes  to  feasting  rare 
On  rich  delight  of  nacreous  skin, 

And  a  wealth  of  whiteness  fair. 

60 


SYMPHONY    IN    WHITE    MAJOR 

Her  rounded  breasts,  pale  globes 

Of  snow,  wage  insolent  war 
With  her  camellias  and  her  robes 

Of  whiteness  nebular. 

In  such  white  wars  supreme 

She  wins,  and  weft  and  flower 
Leave  their  revenge's  right,  and  seem 

Yellowed  with  envy's  hour. 

On  the  white  of  her  shoulder  bare. 

Whose  marble  Paros  lends, 
As  through  the  Polar  twilight  fair. 

Invisible  frost  descends. 

What  beaming  virgin  snow. 

What  pith  a  reed  within. 
What  Host,  what  taper,  did  bestow 

The  white  of  her  matchless  skin  ? 

Was  she  made  of  a  milky  drop 
On  the  blue  of  a  winter  heaven  ? 

The  lily-blow  on  the  stem's  green  top  ? 
The  foam  of  the  sea  at  even  ? 

6i 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

Of  the  marble  still  and  cold, 
Wherein  the  great  gods  dwell  ? 

Of  creamy  opal  gems  that  hold 
Faint  fires  of  mystic  spell  ? 

Or  the  organ's  ivory  keys  ? 

Her  winged  fingers  oft 
Like  butterflies  flit  over  these, 

With  kisses  pending  soft. 

Of  the  ermine's  stainless  fold. 
Whose  white,  warm  touches  fall 

On  shivering  shoulders  and  on  bold, 
Bright  shields  armorial  ? 

Of  the  phantom  flowers  of  frost 
Enscrolled  on  the  window  clear  ? 

Of  the  fountain  drop  in  the  chill  air  lost. 
An  Undine's  frozen  tear  ? 

Of  May  bent  low  with  the  sweets 

Of  her  bountiful  white-thorn  bloom  ? 

Of  alabaster  that  repeats 

The  pallor  of  grief  and  gloom  ? 
_ 


SYMPHONY    IN    WHITE    MAJOR 

Of  the  feathers  of  doves  that  slip 

And  snow  on  the  gable  steep  ? 
Of  slow  stalactite's  tear-white  drip 

In  cavernous  places  deep  ? 

Came  she  from  Greenland  floes 

With  Seraphita  forth  ? 
Is  she  Madonna  of  the  Snows  ? 

A  sphinx  of  the  icy  North, 

Sphinx  buried  by  avalanche, 

The  glacier's  guardian  ghost. 
Whose  frozen  secrets  hide  and  blanch 

In  her  white  heart  innermost  ? 

What  magic  of  what  far  name 

Shall  this  pale  soul  ignite  ? 
Ah !  who  shall  flush  with  rose's  flame 

This  cold,  implacable  white  ? 


63 


ENAMELS  AND  CAMEOS 

COQUETRY  IN  DEATH 

I  BEG  ye  grant,  when  low  I  lie, 
Before  ye  close  my  coffin-bed, 

A  little  black  beneath  mine  eye. 
And  on  my  cheek  a  touch  of  red ! 

Ah,  make  me  beautiful  as  now  ! 

For  I  would  be  upon  my  bier. 
As  on  the  night  of  his  avow 

Charming  and  bloom  ful,  gay  and  dear. 

For  me  no  linen  winding-sheet  ! 

But  gown  me  very  grand  and  bright. 
Bring  forth  my  frock  of  muslin  sweet, 

With  many  ruffles  soft  and  white. 

My  favourite  frock  !     I  wore  it  well, 
Who  wore  it  at  love's  flowering. 

And  since  his  look  upon  it  fell, 
I  Ve  kept  it  as  a  sacred  thing. 

For  me  no  funeral  coronet. 

No  tear-embroidered  cushion  place ; 
But  o  'er  my  fair  lace  pillow  let 

My  hair  droop  free  about  my  face. 

6^ 


COQUETRY    IN    DEATH 

Dear  pillow !     Often  did  it  mark. 
In  mad,  sweet  nights  our  brows  unlit. 

And,  all  within  the  gondola  dark. 
Did  count  our  kisses  infinite. 

About  my  waxen  hands  supine, 

Folded  in  prayer  at  life's  deep  gloam. 

My  rosary  of  opals  twine. 

Blessed  by  His  Holiness  at  Rome. 

I  *11  finger  it,  when  bedded  cold 

Where  never  one  shall  rise.     How  oft 

His  lips  upon  my  lips  have  told 
A  Pater  and  an  Jve  soft  I 


65 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 
HEART'S   DIAMOND 

Every  lover  deep  hath  set 
In  a  sacred  nook  apart 
Some  dear  token  for  the  heart 

In  its  hope  or  its  regret. 

One  hath  nested  safe  away 
Blackest  ringlet  ever  seen, 
Over  which  an  azure  sheen 

Lieth,  as  on  wing  of  jay. 

One  from  shoulder  pale  as  milk 
Took  a  tress  more  golden-fine 
Than  the  threads  that  softly  shine 

In  the  silk-worm's  wonder-silk. 

In  its  hiding  mystical. 

Memory's  reliquary  sweet. 
Glances  of  another  greet 

Gloves  with  fingers  white  and  small. 

And  another  yet  may  list 
To  inhale  a  faint  perfume 
Of  the  violets  from  her  room. 

Freshly  given  —  faded,  kissed. 

■"  66 


HEART'S    DIAMOND 

Here  a  slipper's  curving  grace 
One  with  sighing  treasureth. 
There  another  guards  a  breath 

In  a  mask's  light  edge  of  lace. 

I  *ve  no  slipper  to  revere. 

Neither  glove  nor  tress  nor  flower; 

But  I  cherish  for  love's  dower 
A  divine,  adored  tear,  — 

Fallen  from  the  blue  above. 

Clearest  dew,  heaven's  drop  for  me, 

Pearl  dissolved  secretly 
In  the  chalice  of  my  love. 

To  mine  eyes  the  dim-worn  dew 
Beams,  a  gem  of  Orient  worth. 
Standing  from  the  parchment  forth, 

Diamond  of  a  sapphire  blue,  — 

Steadfast,  lustreful  and  deep ! 

Tear  that  fell  unhoped,  unsought. 
On  a  song  my  soul  once  wrought, 

From  an  eye  unused  to  weep. 


67 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 
SPRING'S    FIRST    SMILE 

While  up  and  down  the  earth  men  pant  and  plod, 
March,  laughing  at  the  showers  and  days  unsteady. 
And  whispering  secret  orders  to  the  sod, 
For  Spring  makes  ready. 

And  slyly  when  the  world  is  sleeping  yet. 
He  smooths  out  collars  for  the  Easter  daisies, 
And  fashions  golden  buttercups  to  set 
In  woodland  mazes. 

Coif-maker  fine,  he  worketh  well  his  plan. 
Orchard  and  vineyard  for  his  touch  are  proudeL 
From  a  white  swan  he  hath  a  down  to  fan 
The  trees  with  powder. 

While  Nature  still  upon  her  couch  doth  lean, 
Stealthily  hies  he  to  the  garden  closes, 
And  laces  in  their  bodices  of  green 
Pale  buds  of  roses. 

Composing  his  solfeggios  in  the  shade. 
He  whistles  them  to  blackbirds  as  he  treadeth. 
And  violets  in  the  wood,  and  in  the  glade 
Snowdrops,  he  spreadeth. 

68 


SPRING'S    FIRST    SMILE 

Where  for  the  restless  stag  the  fountain  wells, 
His  hidden  hand  glides  soft  amid  the  cresses. 
And  scatters  lily-of-the-valley  bells. 
In  silver  dresses. 

He  sinks  the  sweet,  vermilion  strawberries 
Deep  in  the  grasses  for  thy  roving  fingers, 
And  garlands  leaflets  for  thy  forehead's  ease. 
When  sunshine  lingers. 

When,  labour  done,  he  must  away,  turns  he 
On  April's  threshold  from  his  fair  creating. 
And  calleth  unto  Spring  :  "  Come,  Spring  —  for  see. 
The  woods  are  waiting  !  " 


69 


ENAMELS  AND  CAMEOS 

CONTRALTO 

There  lies  within  a  great  museum's  hall. 
Upon  a  snowy  bed  of  carven  stone, 

A  statue  ever  strange  and  mystical, 
With  some  fair  fascination  all  its  own. 

And  is  it  youth  or  is  it  maiden  sweet, 
A  goddess  or  a  god  come  down  to  sway  ? 

Love  fearful,  hesitating,  turns  his  feet. 
Nor  any  word's  avowal  will  betray. 

Sideways  it  lieth,  with  averted  face, 

Stretching  its  lovely  limbs,  half  mischievous. 

Unto  the  curious  crowd,  an  idle  grace 
Lighting  its  marble  form  luxurious. 

For  fashioning  of  its  evil  beauty  brought 
The  sexes  twain  each  one  its  magic  dower. 

Man  whispers  "  Aphrodite !  "  in  his  thought. 
And  woman  ^^  Eros !  "  wondering  at  its  power. 

Uncertain  sex  and  certain  grace,  that  seem 
To  melt  forever  in  a  fountain's  kiss. 

Waters  that  whelm  the  body  as  they  gleam 
And  merge,  and  it  is  one  with  Salmacis. 

70 


CONTRALTO 

Ardent  chimera,  effort  venturesome 

Of  Art  and  Pleasure  —  figure  fanciful ! 

Into  thy  presence  with  delight  I  come, 
Loving  thy  beauty  strange  and  multiple. 

Though  I  may  never  close  to  thee  draw  nigh. 
How  often  have  my  glances  pierced  the  taut, 

Straight  fold  of  thine  austerest  drapery, 
Fast  at  the  end  about  thine  ankle  caught ! 

O  dream  of  poet  passing  every  bound ! 

My  thought  hath  built  a  fancy  of  thy  form. 
Till  it  is  molten  into  silver  sound. 

And  boy  and  girl  are  one  in  cadence  warm. 

O  tone  divine,  O  richest  tone  of  earth. 
The  beautiful,  bright  statue's  counterpart ! 

Contralto,  thou  fantastical  of  birth. 

The  voice's  own  Hermaphrodite  thou  art  1 

Thou  art  the  plaintive  dove,  the  linnet  rare. 
Perched  on  one  rose  tree,  mellow  in  one  note. 

Thou  art  fair  Juliet  and  Romeo  fair. 

Singing  across  the  night  with  one  warm  throat. 

71 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

Thou  art  the  young  wife  of  the  castellan, 

Chaffing  an  amorous  page  below  her  bower,  — 

Upon  her  balcony  the  lady  wan, 

The  lover  at  the  base  of  her  high  tower. 

Thou  art  the  yellow  butterfly  that  swings. 

Pursuing  soft  a  butterfly  of  snow. 
In  spiral  flights  and  subtle  traversings. 

One  winging  high,  the  other  winging  low  5 

The  angel  flitting  up  and  down  the  gold 

Of  the  bright  stair's  aerial  extent. 
The  bell  in  whose  alloy  of  mighty  mould 

Are  voice  of  bronze  and  voice  of  silver  blent 

Yea,  melody  and  harmony  art  thou, 

Song  with  its  true  accompaniment,  and  grace 

Matched  unto  force,  —  the  woman  plighting  vow 
To  her  Beloved  with  a  close  embrace  j 

Or  thou  art  Cinderella  doomed  to  spend 
Her  night  before  the  embers  of  the  fire. 

Deep  in  a  conversation  with  her  friend. 
The  cricket,  as  the  latter  hours  expire ; 

72 


CONTRALTO 

Or  Arsaces,  the  great  and  valorous. 

Waging  his  righteous  battle  for  a  realm, 

Or  Tancred  with  his  breastplate  luminous, 

Cuirassed  and  splendid  with  his  sword  and  helm ; 

Or  Desdemona  with  her  willow  song, 

Zerlina  laughing  at  Mazetto,  or 
Malcolm,  his  plaid  upon  his  shoulder  strong. 

Thee,  O  thou  dear  Contralto,  I  adore ! 

For  these  thou  art,  thou  dearest  charm  of  each, 
O  fair  Contralto,  double-throated  dove  ! 

The  Kaled  of  a  Lara,  for  thy  speech. 

Thou  mightest,  like  the  lost  Gulnare,  prove,  — 

In  whose  heart-stirring,  passionate  caress 

In  one  wild,  tremulous  note  there  blend  and  mount 

A  woman's  sigh  of  plaintive  tenderness. 
And  virile  accents  from  a  firmer  fount. 


73 


ENAMELS  AND  CAMEOS 

EYES  OF  BLUE 

A  WOMAN,  mystic,  sweet. 

Whose  beauty  draws  my  soul, 

Stands  silent  where  the  fleet 
And  singing  waters  roll. 

Her  eyes,  the  mirrored  note 

Of  heaven,  merge  heaven's  blue 

Bestarred  of  lights  remote. 
With  the  sea's  glaucous  hue. 

Within  their  languor  set. 

Smiles  sadness  infinite. 
Tears  make  the  sparkles  wet. 

And  tender  grows  the  light. 

Like  sea-gulls  from  aloft 
That  graze  the  ocean  free. 

Her  lashes  flutter  soft 
Upon  an  azure  sea. 

As  slumbering  treasures  drowned 

Send  shimmers  lightly  up. 
Gleams  through  the  tide  profound 

The  King  of  Thule's  cup. 

74 


EYES    OF    BLUE 

Athwart  the  weedy  swirl 

Brilliant,  the  waves  upon. 
Shine  Cleopatra's  pearl, 

And  ring  of  Solomon. 

The  crown  to  ocean  cast. 

That  Schiller  showed  to  us. 
Still  under  sea  caught  fast, 

Beams  clear  and  luminous. 

A  magic  in  that  gaze 

Draws  me,  mad  venturer ! 
Thus  mermaid's  magic  ways 

Drew  Harold  Haarfager. 

And  all  my  soul  unquelled 

Adown  the  gulf  betrayed 
Dives,  to  the  quest  impelled 

Of  some  elusive  shade. 

The  siren  fitfully 

Displays  her  body's  gleam, 
Her  breast  and  arms  that  ply 

Through  waves  of  amorous  dream. 

75 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

The  water  heaves  and  falls, 

Like  breasts  with  passion's  breath. 

The  breeze  insistent  calls 
To  me,  and  murmureth : 

Comg  to  my  pearly  bed  ! 

My  ocean  arms  shall  slip 
About  thee  :  salt  shall  spread 

To  honey  on  thy  lip  ! 

Oh,  let  the  billows  link 

Above  us  !      Thou  shalt,  warm, 

From  cup  of  kisses  drink 
Oblivion  of  the  storm  !  " 

Thus  sighs  the  glance  that  sweeps 
From  out  those  sea-blue  gates. 

Till  heart  down  treacherous  deeps 
The  hymen  consummates. 


76 


THE  TOREADOR'S  SERENADE 


THE  TOREADOR'S  SERENADE 

RONDALLA 

Child  with  airs  imperial, 

Dove  with  falcon's  eyes  for  me 

Whom  thou  hatest,  —  come  I  shall 
Underneath  thy  balcony ! 

There,  my  foot  upon  the  stone, 

I  shall  twang  my  chords  with  grace. 

Till  thy  window-pane  hath  shone 
With  thy  lamplight  and  thy  face. 

Let  no  lad  with  his  guitar 

Strum  adown  the  bordering  ways. 

Mine  the  road  to  watch  and  bar, 
Mine  alone  to  sing  thy  praise. 

Let  the  first  my  courage  brave. 

He  shall  lose  his  ears,  egad  ! 
Who  shall  howl  his  love  and  rave 

In  a  couplet  good  or  bad. 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

Restless  doth  my  dagger  lie. 

Come  !  who'll  venture  its  rebuff? 
Who  would  wear  for  every  sigh 

Blood's  red  flower  upon  his  ruff? 

Blood  grows  weary  of  its  veins  ; 

For  it  yearns  to  be  displayed. 
Night  is  ominous  with  rains. 

Haste,  ye  cowards,  back  to  shade  I 

On,  thou  braggart,  else  aroint ! 

Well  thy  forearm  cover  thou. 
On  !  and  with  my  dagger's  point 

Let  me  write  upon  thy  brow. 

Let  them  come,  alone,  in  mass : 
Firm  of  foot  I  bide  my  place. 
For  thy  glory,  as  they  pass, 
\  Would  I  slit  each  paltry  face. 

O'er  the  gutter  ere  thy  clear. 

Snowy  feet  shall  be  defiled, 

By  the  Rood  !  a  bridge  I  '11  rear 

With  the  bones  of  gallants  wild. 
_ 


THE   TOREADOR'S   SERENADE 

I  would  slay,  thy  love  to  wear, 

Any  foe,  yea,  even  proud 
Satan's  very  self  to  dare. 

So  thy  sheets  became  my  shroud. 

Sightless  window,  deafened  door ! 

Wilt  thou  never  heed  my  sounds? 
Like  a  wounded  bull  I  roar. 

Maddening  the  baying  hounds. 

Drive  at  least  a  poor  nail  then, 
Where  my  heart  may  hang  inert. 

For  I  want  it  not  again, 

With  its  madness  and  its  hurt  I 


79 


.  <:db:fc  i: :!:  db  db  4: 4:  :t  4r^4r  tif  tfcil?  tfctfc  4rtlr?ir  ir  jfc  si: 

ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 


NOSTALGIA   OF   THE  OBELISKS 

THE    OBELISK     IN    PARIS 

Distant  from  my  native  land. 

Ever  dull  with  ennui's  pain, 
Lonely  monolith  I  stand. 

In  the  snow  and  frost  and  rain. 

And  my  shaft,  once  burnt  to  red 

In  a  flaming  heaven's  glare, 
Taketh  on  a  pallor  dead 

In  this  never  azure  air. 

Oh,  to  stand  again  before 

Luxor's  pylons,  and  the  dear. 

Grim  Colossi !  —  be  once  more 
My  vermilion  brother  near ! 

Oh,  to  pierce  the  changeless  blue. 
Where  of  old  my  peak  upwon, 

With  my  shadow  sharp  and  true 
Trace  the  footsteps  of  the  sun  ! 

'  80 


NOSTALGIA  OF   THE  OBELISKS 

Once,  O  Rameses  !  my  tall  mass 

Not  the  ages  could  destroy. 
But  it  fell  cut  down  like  grass. 

Paris  took  it  for  a  toy. 

NAv  my  granite  form  behold  : 

Sentinel  the  livelong  day 
Twixt  a  spurious  temple  old, 

And  the  Chambre  des  Deputes/ 

On  the  spot  where  Louis  Seize 
Died,  they  set  me,  meaningless. 

With  my  secret  which  outweighs 
Cycles  of  forgetfulness. 

Sparrows  lean  defile  my  head. 
Where  the  ibis  used  to  light. 

And  the  fierce  gypaetus  spread 
Talons  gold  and  plumage  white. 

And  the  Seine,  the  drip  of  street. 
Unclean  river,  crime's  abyss. 

Now  befouls  mine  ancient  feet. 
Which  the  Nile  was  wont  to  kiss : 

6  8i 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

Hoary  Nile  that,  crowned  and  stern, 

To  its  lotus-laden  shores 
From  its  ever  bended  urn 

Crocodiles  for  gudgeon  pours ! 

Golden  chariots  gem-belit 
Of  the  Pharaohs'  pageanting 

Grazed  my  side  the  cab-wheels  hit, 
Bearing  out  the  last  poor  king. 

By  my  granite  shape  of  yore 

Passed  the  priests,  with  stately  pschent, 
And  the  mystic  boat  upbore, 

Emblemed  and  magnificent. 

But  to-day,  profane  and  wan. 

Camped  between  two  fountains  wide, 

I  behold  the  courtesan 

In  her  carriage  lounge  with  pride. 

From  the  first  of  year  to  last 
I  must  see  the  vulgar  show  — 

Solons  to  the  Council  passed. 
Lovers  to  the  woods  that  go ! 

'  82 


XXX  XX  xxxxxxxxxxxxdcxxxxxx 

NOSTALGIA  OF  THE   OBELISKS 

Oh,  what  skeletons  abhorred, 

Hence,  an  hundred  years,  this  race ! 

Couched,  unbandaged,  on  a  board. 
In  a  nailed  coffin's  place. 

Never  hypogeum  kind. 

Safe  from  foul  corruption's  fear; 

Never  hall  where  century-lined 
Generations  disappear ! 

Sacred  soil  of  hieroglyph, 

And  of  sacerdotal  laws. 
Where  the  Sphinx  is  waiting  stiff, 

Sharpening  on  the  stone  its  claws, — 

Soil  of  crypt  where  echoes  part. 
Where  the  vulture  swoopeth  free, 

All  my  being,  —  all  my  heart, 
O  mine  Egypt,  weeps  for  thee ! 


83 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

THE    OBELISK    IN    LUXOR 

Where  the  wasted  columns  brcxxi. 

Lonely  sentinel  stand  I, 
In  eternal  solitude 

Facing  all  infinity. 

Dumb,  with  beauty  unendowed. 

To  the  horizon  limitless 
Spreads  earth's  desert  like  a  shroud 

Stained  by  yellow  suns  that  press. 

While  above  it,  blue  and  clean, 

Is  another  desert  cast  — 
Sky  where  cloud  is  never  seen, 

Pure,  implacable,  and  vast. 

And  the  Nile's  great  water-course 
Glazed  with  leaden  pellicle 

Wrinkled  by  the  river-horse 
Gleameth  dead,  unlustreful. 

All  about  the  flaming  isles. 
By  a  turbid  water  spanned. 

Hot,  rapacious  crocodiles 

Swoon  and  sob  upon  the  sand. 

'  84 


NOSTALGIA   OF  THE   OBELISKS 

Perching  motionless,  alone, 

^  Ibis,  bird  of  classic  fame. 

From  a  carven  slab  of  stone 

Reads  the  moon-god's  sacred  name. 

Jackals  howl,  hyenas  grin. 

Famished  hawks  descend  and  ciy. 

Down  the  heavy  air  they  spin, 
Commas  black  against  the  sky. 

These  the  sounds  of  solitude. 

Where  the  sphinxes  yawn  and  doze. 

Dull  and  passionless  of  mood. 
Weary  of  their  endless  pose. 

Child  of  sand's  reflected  shine. 
And  of  sun-rays  fiercely  bent, 

Is  there  ennui  like  to  thine. 
Spleen  of  luminous  Orient  ? 

Thou  it  was  cried  "  Halt !  '*  of  yore 

To  satiety  of  kings. 
Thou  hast  crushed  me  more  and  more 

With  thine  awful  weight  of  wings. 

85 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

Here  no  zephyr  of  the  sea 

Wipes  the  tears  from  skies  that  fill. 
Time  himself  leans  wearily 

On  the  palaces  long  still. 

Naught  shall  touch  the  features  terse 

Of  this  dull,  eternal  spot. 
In  this  changing  universe, 

Only  Egypt  changeth  not ! 

When  the  ennui  never  ends, 
And  I  yearn  a  friend  to  hold, 

I  Ve  the  fellahs,  mummies,  friends. 
Of  the  dynasties  of  old. 

I  behold  a  pillar  pale, 

Or  a  chipped  Colossus  note. 

Watch  a  distant,  gleaming  sail 
Up  and  down  the  Nile  afloat. 

Oh,  to  seek  my  brother's  side. 
In  a  Paris  wondrous,  grand. 

With  his  stately  form  to  bide. 
In  the  public  place  to  stand  ! 

86 


NOSTALGIA  OF  THE   OBELISKS 

For  he  looks  on  living  men, 

And  they  scan  his  pictures  wrought 

By  an  hieratic  pen, 

To  be  read  by  vision-thought. 

Fountains  fair  as  amethyst 

On  his  granite  lightly  pour 
All  their  irisated  mist. 

He  is  growing  young  once  more. 

Ah !  yet  he  and  I  had  birth 

From  Syene's  veins  of  red. 
But  I  keep  my  spot  of  earth. 

He  is  living.     I  am  dead. 


87 


ENAMELS  AND  CAMEOS 


VETERANS  OF  THE  OLD 

GUARD 

(December  15) 

Driven  by  ennui  from  my  room, 

I  walked  along  the  Boulevard. 
*T  was  in  December's  mist  and  gloom. 

A  bitter  wind  was  blowing  hard. 

And  there  I  saw  —  strange  thing  to  see !  — 

In  drizzle  and  in  daylight  drear, 
From  out  their  dark  abodes  let  free. 

Dim,  spectral  shadow-shapes  appear. 

Yet  't  is  by  night's  uncanny  hours, 
By  pallid  German  moonbeams  cast 

On  old  dilapidated  towers. 

That  ghosts  are  wont  to  wander  past. 

It  is  by  night's  effulgent  star 

In  dripping  robes  that  elves  intrigue 

To  bear  beneath  the  nenuphar 
Their  dancer  dead  of  his  fatigue. 

88 


VETERANS  OF  THE  OLD   GUARD 

At  night's  mysterious  tide  hath  been 
The  great  review  —  of  ballad  writs  — 

Wherein  the  Emperor,  dimly  seen, 
Numbered  the  shades  of  Austerlitz. 

But  phantoms  near  the  Gymnase  ?  —  yea. 
And  wet  and  miry  phantoms,  too. 

And  close  to  the  Variites, 

And  not  a  shroud  to  trick  the  view  I 

With  yellow  teeth  and  stained  dress^ 
And  mossy  skull  and  pierced  shoon, 

Paris  —  Montmartre  —  behold  it  press,  —' 
Death  in  the  very  light  of  noon ! 

Ah,  't  is  a  picture  to  be  seen  ! 

Three  veteran  ghosts  in  uniform 
Of  the  Old  Guard,  and,  spare  and  lean, 

Two  ghost-hussars  in  daylight's  storm. 

The  lithograph,  you  would  surmise. 
Wherein  one  ray  shines  down  upon 

The  dead,  that  RafFet  deifies. 

That  pass  and  shout  "  Napoleon  !  ** 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

No  dead  are  these,  whom  nightly  drum 
May  rouse  to  battle  fires  that  burn. 

But  stragglers  of  the  Old  Guard,  come 
To  celebrate  the  grand  return  ! 

Since  fighting  in  the  fight  supreme. 
One  has  grown  thin,  another  stout; 

The  coats  that  fitted  once  now  seem 
Too  small,  too  loose,  or  draggled  out. 

O  epic  rags !  O  tatters  light. 

Starred  with  a  cross  !  Heroic  things 

Of  ridicule,  ye  gleam  more  bright. 
More  beautiful  than  robes  of  kings ! 

Limp  feathers  fluttering  adorn 

The  tawny  colbacks  worn  and  grim. 

The  bullet  and  the  moth  have  torn 
And  riddled  well  the  dolmans  dim. 

Their  leathern  breeches  loosely  hang 
In  furrows  on  their  lank  thigh-bones, 

Their  rusty  sabres  drag  and  clang. 
As  heavily  they  scrape  the  stones. 

90 


VETERANS  OF  THE   OLD   GUARD 

Or  some  round  belly  firm  and  fat, 

Squeezed  tight  in  tether  labour-donned, 

Makes  mirth  and  jest  to  chuckle  at  — 
Old  hero  quaint  and  cheveroned  ! 

But  do  not  mock  and  jeer,  my  lad. 

Salute  him,  rather,  and,  believe, 
Achilles  he,  of  Iliad 

That  Homer's  self  could  not  conceive. 

Respect  these  men  with  battle  signs 

That  twenty  skies  have  painted  brown; 

Their  scars  that  lengthen  out  the  lines 
Of  wrinkles  age  has  written  down ; 

Their  skin  whose  colour  deep  and  dun. 
Bared  to  the  fronts  of  many  foes. 

Tells  us  of  Egypt's  burning  sun ; 

Their  locks  that  tell  of  Russia's  snows. 

And  if  they  shake,  no  longer  strong  ? 

Ah !  Beresina's  wind  was  cold. 
And  if  they  limp  ?     The  way  was  long. 

From  Cairo  unto  Vilna  told. 

91 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

If  they  be  stiff?     They'd  but  a  flag 
For  sheet  to  hold  their  bodies  wanii. 

And  if  a  sleeve  be  loose,  poor  rag  ? 
'T  is  that  a  bullet  tore  an  arm. 

Mock  not  these  veteran  shapes  bizarre. 
At  whom  the  urchin  laughs  and  gapes. 

They  were  the  day,  of  which  we  are 

The  evening,  and  the  night,  perhaps, — 

Remembering  if  we  forget  — 
Red  lancer,  grenadier  in  blue. 

With  faces  to  the  Column  set. 
As  to  their  only  altar  true. 

There,  proud  of  pain  each  scar  denotes, 
And  of  long  miseries  gone  by. 

They  feel  beneath  their  shabby  coats 
The  heart  of  France  beat  mightily. 

And  so  our  smiles  are  steeped  in  tears, 

Seeing  this  holy  carnival. 
This  picture  wan  that  reappears. 

Like  morning  after  midnight's  ball. 


VETERANS  OF  THE  OLD  GUARD 

And,  cleaving  heaven  its  own  to  claim. 
Wide  the  Grand  Army's  eagle  spreads 

Its  golden  wings,  like  glory's  flame, 
Above  their  dear  and  hallowed  heads. 


93 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

SEA-GLOOM 

The  sea-gulls  restless  gleam  and  glance, 
The  mad  white  coursers  cleave  the  length 

Of  ocean  as  they  rear  and  prance 

And  toss  their  manes  in  stormy  strength. 

The  day  is  ending.     Raindrops  choke 
The  sunset  furnaces.     The  gloom 

Brings  the  great  steamboat  spitting  smoke, 
And  beating  down  its  long  black  plume. 

And  I,  more  wan  than  heaven  wide, 
For  land  of  soot  and  fog  am  bound. 

For  land  of  smoke  and  suicide  — 

And  right  good  weather  have  I  found ! 

How  eagerly  I  now  would  pierce 

The  gulf  that  groweth  wild  and  hoar  ! 

The  vessel  rocks.     The  waves  are  fierce. 
The  salt  wind  freshens  more  and  more. 

Ah  !  bitter  is  my  soul's  unrest. 

The  very  ocean  sighing  heaves 
In  pity  its  unhopeful  breast, 

Like  some  good  friend  that  knows  and  grieves. 

94 


SEA-GLOOM 

Let  be  —  lost  love's  despair  supreme  ! 

Let  be  —  illusions  fair  that  rose 
And  fell  from  pedestals  of  dream  ! 

One  leap  !     The  dark  wet  ridges  close. 

Away  !  ye  sufferings  gone  by, 

That  evermore  returning  brood, 
And  press  the  wounds  that  sleeping  lie. 

To  make  them  weep  afresh  their  blood. 

Away  !  regret,  whose  crimson  heart 

Hath  seven  swords.     Yea,  One,  maybe, 

Doth  know  the  anguish  and  the  smart  — 
Mother  of  Seven  Sorrows,  She  ! 

Each  ghostly  grief  sinks  down  the  vast. 
And  struggles  with  the  waves  that  throb 

To  close  about  it,  and  at  last 
Drown  it  forever  with  a  sob. 

Soul's  ballast,  treasures  of  life's  hand. 
Sink  !  and  we  '11  wreck  together  down. 

Pale  on  the  pillow  of  the  sand 

I  *11  rest  me  well  at  evening  brown. 

95 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

But,  now,  a  woman,  as  I  gaze. 
Sits  in  the  bridge's  darker  nook, 

A  woman,  who  doth  sweetly  raise 
Her  eyes  to  mine  in  one  long  look. 

*T  is  Sympathy  with  outstretched  arms. 
Who  smileth  to  me  through  the  gray 

Of  dusk  with  all  her  thousand  charms. 
Hail,  azure  eyes !     Green  sea,  away  ! 

The  sea-gulls  restless  gleam  and  glance. 

The  mad  white  coursers  cleave  the  length 
Of  Ocean  as  they  rear  and  prance 

And  toss  their  manes  in  stormy  strength. 


96 


TO   A   ROSE-COLOURED   GOWN 

TO   A   ROSE-COLOURED  GOWN 

How  I  love  you  in  the  robes 

That  disrobe  so  well  your  charms  ! 

Your  dear  breasts,  twin  ivory  globes. 
And  your  bare  sweet  pagan  arms. 

Frail  as  frailest  wing  of  bee, 

Fresher  than  the  heart  of  rose, 
All  the  fabric  delicate,  free. 

Round  your  body  gleams  and  glows, 

Till  from  slcin  to  silken  thread. 

Silver  shivers  lightly  win. 
And  the  rosy  gown  have  shed 

Roses  on  the  creamy  skin. 

Whence  have  you  the  mystic  thing, 

Made  of  very  flesh  of  you. 
Living  mesh  to  mix  and  cling 

With  your  glorious  body's  hue  ? 

Did  you  take  it  from  the  rud 

Of  the  dawn  ?     From  Venus*  shell  ? 

From  a  breast-flower  nigh  to  bud  ? 
From  a  rose  about  to  swell  ? 

7  97 


db  dbdt  :<:  4:  db  db :!:  * :!:  i:ir:fc  J<?**  tfc**tfcdb  *  dfcdb 

ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

Doth  the  texture  have  its  dye 

From  some  blushing  bashfulness  ? 

No  —  your  portraits  do  not  lie  — 
Beauty  beauty's  form  shall  guess  ! 

Down  you  cast  your  garment  fair, 

Art-dreamed,  sweet  Reality, 
Like  Borghese's  princess,  rare 

For  Canova's  mastery  ! 

Ah !  the  folds  are  lips  of  fire 

Sweeping  round  your  lovely  form 

In  a  folly  of  desire. 

With  a  weft  of  kisses  warm  ! 


98 


THE    WQRLD^S    MALICIOUS 

THE   WORLD'S    MALICIOUS 

Ah,  little  one,  the  world 's  malicious  ! 

With  mocking  smiles  thy  beauty  greeting. 
It  says  that  in  thy  breast  capricious 

A  watch,  and  not  a  heart,  is  beating. 

Yet  like  the  sea  thy  breast  is  swelling 
With  all  the  wild,  tumultuous  power 

A  tide  of  blood  sends  pulsing,  welling. 
Beneath  thy  flesh  in  life's  young  hour. 

Ah,  little  one,  the  world  is  spiteful ! 

It  says  thy  vivid  eyes  are  fooling. 
And  that  they  have  their  charm  delightful 

From  faithful,  diplomatic  schooling. 

Yet  on  thy  lashes'  shifting  curtain 

An  iridescent  tear-drop  trembles. 
Like  dew  unbidden  and  uncertain. 

That  no  well-water's  gleam  resembles. 

Ah,  little  one,  the  world  reviles  thee ! 
It  says  thou  hast  no  spirit's  favour. 
That  verse,  which  seemingly  beguiles  thee. 
Hath  unto  thee  a  Sanskrit  savour. 

99 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

Yet  to  thy  crimson  lips  inviting, 

Intelligence's  bee  of  laughter. 
At  every  flash  of  wit  alighting, 

Allures  and  gleams,  and  lingers  after. 

Ah,  little  one,  I  know  the  trouble ! 

Thou  lovest  me.     The  world,  it  guesses. 
Leave  me,  and  hear  its  praises  bubble :  — 

"  What  heart,  what  spirit,  she  possesses  I  ** 


lOO 


INES    DE    LAS    SIERRAS 


INES   DE    LAS   SIERRAS 

To   PETRA    CAMARA 

In  Spain,  as  Nodier's  pen  has  told, 
Three  officers  in  night's  mid  hours 

Came  on  a  castle  dark  and  old, 

With  sunken  eaves  and  mouldering  towers, 

A  true  Anne  RadclifFe  type  it  was, 

With  ruined  halls  and  crumbling  rooms 

And  windows  graven  by  the  claws 

Of  Goya's  bats  that  ranged  the  glooms. 

Now  while  they  feasted,  gazed  upon 
By  ancient  portraits  standing  guard 

In  their  ancestral  frames,  anon 
A  sudden  cry  rang  thitherward. 

Forth  from  a  distant  corridor 

That  many  a  moonbeam's  pallid  hue 

Fretted  fantastically  o'er, 

A  wondrous  phantom  sped  in  view. 

lOI 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

With  bodice  high  and  hair  comb-tipped, 
A  woman,  running,  dancing,  hied. 

Adown  the  dappled  gloom  she  dipped,-— 
An  iridescent  form  descried. 

A  languid,  dead,  voluptuous  mood 
Filled  every  act's  abandon  brief. 

Till  at  the  door  she  stopped,  and  stood 
Sinister,  lovely  past  belief. 

Her  raiment  crumpled  in  the  tomb 

Showed  here  and  there  a  spangle's  foil. 

At  every  start  a  faded  bloom 

Dropped  petals  in  her  hair's  black  coil. 

A  dull  scar  crossed  her  bloodless  throat, 
As  of  a  knife.     Like  rattle  chill 

Of  teeth,  her  castanets  she  smote 
Full  in  their  faces  awed  and  still. 

Ah,  poor  bacchante,  sad  of  grace ! 

So  wild  the  sweetness  of  her  spell. 
The  curved  lips  in  her  white  face 

Had  lured  a  saint  from  heaven  to  hell !] 

102 


INES    DE    LAS    SIERRAS 

Like  darkling  birds  her  eyelashes 
Upon  her  cheek  lay  fluttering  light. 

Her  kirtle's  swinging  cadences 

Displayed  her  limbs  of  lustrous  white. 

She  bowed  amid  a  mist  of  gyres, 

And  with  her  hand,  as  dancers  may, 

Like  flowers  she  gathered  up  desires. 
And  grouped  them  in  a  bright  bouquet. 

Was  it  a  wraith  or  woman  seen, 

A  thing  of  dreams,  or  blood  and  flesh, 

The  flame  that  burst  from  out  the  sheen 
Of  beauty's  undulating  mesh  ? 

It  was  a  phantom  of  the  past. 
It  was  the  Spain  of  olden  keep. 

Who,  at  the  sound  of  cheer  at  last, 
Upbounded  from  her  icy  sleep, 

In  one  bolero  mad,  supreme. 
Rough-resurrected,  powerful. 

Showing  beneath  her  kirtle's  gleam 
The  ribbon  wrested  from  the  bull. 

103 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

About  her  throat  the  scar  of  red 
The  deathblow  was,  dealt  silently 

Unto  a  generation  dead 

By  every  new-born  century. 

I  saw  this  self-same  phantom  fleet, 
All  Paris  ringing  with  her  praise. 

When  soft,  diaphanous,  mystic,  sweet. 
La  Petra  Camara  held  its  gaze, — 

Closing  her  eyes  with  languor  rare. 

Impassive,  passionate  of  art. 
And,  like  the  murdered  Ines  fair. 

Dancing,  a  dagger  in  her  heart. 


104 


ODELET 


ODELET 

ArTXK    ANACREON 

Poet  of  her  face  divine. 
Curb  this  over-zeal  of  thine ! 
Doves  wing  frighted  from  the  ground 
At  a  step's  too  sudden  sound, 
And  her  passion  is  a  dove. 
Frighted  by  too  bold  a  love. 
Mute  as  marble  Hermes  wait 
By  the  blooming  hawthorn-gate. 
Thou  shalt  see  her  wings  expand. 
She  shall  flutter  to  thy  hand. 
On  thy  forehead  thou  shalt  know 
Something  like  a  breath  of  snow. 
Or  of  pinions  pure  that  beat 
In  a  whirl  of  whiteness  sweet. 
And  the  dove,  grown  venturesome. 
Shall  upon  thy  shoulder  come, 
And  its  rosy  beak  shall  sip 
From  the  nectar  of  thy  lip. 

105 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 


SMOKE 

Beneath  yon  tree  sits  humble 
A  squalid,  hunchbacked  house. 
With  roof  precipitous, 

And  mossy  walls  that  crumble. 

Bolted  and  barred  the  shanty. 
But  from  its  must  and  mould, 
Like  breath  of  lips  in  cold. 

Comes  respiration  scanty. 

A  vapour  upward  welling, 
A  slender,  silver  streak, 
To  God  bears  tidings  meek 

Of  the  soul  in  the  little  dwelling. 


1 06 


:(b  db  i:  db  4r  db  db  *  db :!?  J?dttfctfc*:fc  :fc  tfcdb^:  *  !ir  dksfc 

APOLLONIA 


APOLLONI A 

Fair  Apollonia,  name  august, 

Greek  echo  of  the  sacred  vale, 
Great  name  whose  harmonies  robust 

Thee  as  Apollo's  sister  hail ! 

Struck  with  the  plectrum  on  the  lyre. 

And  in  melodious  beauty  sung, 
Brighter  than  love's  and  glory's  fire. 

It  resonant  rings  upon  the  tongue. 

At  such  a  classic  sound  as  this. 

The  elves  plunge  down  their  German  lake. 
Alone  the  Delphian  worthy  is 

So  lustreful  a  name  to  take,  — 

Pythta  !  when  in  her  flowing  dress 

She  mounts  her  place  with  feet  unshod. 

And,  priestess  white  and  prophetess. 
Wistful  awaits  the  tardy  god. 


107 


dcacvvx  xdbv!lrvVVX!l>*!fcxxdBX!KV9rsfcs 
ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

THE   BLIND    MAN 

A  BLIND  man  walks  without  the  gate. 
Wild-staring  as  an  owl  by  day. 

Fumbling  his  flute  betimes  and  late, 
Along  the  way. 

He  pipeth,  weary  wretch  and  worn, 

A  roundel  shrill  and  obsolete. 
The  spectre  of  a  dog  forlorn 

Attends  his  feet. 

For  him  the  days  go  lustreless. 

Invisible  life  with  beat  and  roar 
He  heareth  like  a  torrent  press 

Around,  before. 

What  strange  chimeras  haunt  his  head  ) 
And  on  his  mind's  bedarkened  space,      # 

What  characters  unheard,  unread. 
Doth  fancy  trace  ? 

Thus  down  Venetian  leads  of  doom. 

Wan  prisoners  ensepulchred 

In  palpable,  undying  gloom 

Have  graven  their  word. 
_ 


THE    BLIND    MAN 

And  yet  perchance  when  life's  last  spark 
Death  speeds  unto  eternal  night. 

The  tomb-bred  soul,  within  the  dark. 
Shall  see  the  light. 


109 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 


SONG 

In  April  earth  is  white  and  rose 

Like  youth  and  love,  now  tendering 

Her  smiles,  now  fearful  to  disclose 
Her  virgin  heart  unto  the  Spring. 

In  June,  a  little  pale  and  worn, 
And  full  at  heart  of  vague  desire. 

She  hideth  in  the  yellow  corn. 

With  sunburned  Summer  to  respire. 

In  August,  wild  Bacchante,  she 

Her  bosom  bares  to  Autumn  shapes. 

And  on  the  tiger-skin  flung  free,  # 

Draws  forth  the  purple  blood  of  grapes. 

And  in  December,  shrivelled,  old, 
Bepowdered  white  from  foot  to  head. 

In  dream  she  wakens  Winter  cold. 
That  sleeps  beside  her  in  her  bed. 

no 


WINTER    FANTASIES 


WINTER     FANTASIES 

I 

Red  of  nose  and  white  of  face. 
Bent  his  desk  of  ice  before, 

Winter  doth  his  theme  retrace 
In  the  season's  quatuor, — 

Beating  measure  and  the  ground 
With  a  frozen  foot  for  us. 

Singing  with  uncertain  sound 
Olden  tunes  and  tremulous. 

And  as  Haendel's  wig  sublime 
Trembling  shook  its  powder,  oft 

Flutter  as  he  taps  his  time 
Snow-flakes  in  a  flurry  soft. 


Ill 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 


II 

In  the  Tuileries  fount  the  swan 
Meets  the  ice,  and  all  the  trees, 

As  in  land  of  fairies  wan, 
Are  bedecked  with  filigrees. 

Flowers  of  frost  in  vases  low 

Stand  unquickened  and  unstirred. 

And  we  trace  upon  the  snow 
Starred  footsteps  of  a  bird. 

Where  with  lightest  raiment  spanned, 
Venus  was  with  Phocion  met, 

Now  has  Winter's  hoary  hand 
Clodion's  "  Chilly  Maiden  ***set. 


112 


WINTER    FANTASIES 


III 

Women  pass  in  ermine  dress. 

Sable,  too,  and  miniver. 
And  the  shivering  goddesses 

Haste  to  don  the  fashion's  fur. 

Venus  of  the  Brine  comes  forth. 
In  her  hooded  mantle's  fluff. 

Flora,  blown  by  breezes  North, 
Hides  her  fingers  in  her  mufF. 

And  the  shepherdesses  round 
Of  Coustou  and  Coysevox, 

Finding  scarves  too  light  have  wound 
Furs  about  their  throats  of  snow. 


"3 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 


IV 

Heavy  doth  the  North  bedrape 
Paris  mode  from  foot  to  top, 

As  o'er  fair  Athenian  shape 

Scythian  should  a  bearskin  drop. 

Over  winter's  garments  meet. 
Everywhere  we  see  the  fur. 

Flung  with  Russian  pomp,  and  sweet 
With  the  fragrant  vetiver. 

Pleasure's  laughing  glances  feast 
Far  amid  the  statues,  where 

From  the  bristles  of  a  beast 
Bursts  a  Venus  torso  fair  ! 


114 


WINTER    FANTASIES 


If  you  venture  hitherward. 
With  a  tender  veil  to  cheat 

Glances  over-daring,  guard 
Well  your  Andalusian  feet ! 

Snow  shall  fashion  like  a  frame 
On  your  foot's  impression  rare. 

Signing  with  each  step  your  name 
On  the  carpet  soft  and  vair. 

Thus  were  surly  master  led 
To  the  hidden  trysting-place. 

Where  his  Psyche,  faintly  red. 
Were  beheld  in  Love's  embrace. 


"5 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

THE   BROOK 

Near  a  great  water's  waste 
A  brook  mid  rock  and  spar 

Came  bubbling  up  in  haste. 
As  though  to  travel  far. 

It  sang  :  "  What  joy  to  rise ! 

'T  was  dismal  under  ground. 
I  mirror  now  the  skies. 

My  banks  with  green  abound. 

"  Forget-me-nots  —  how  fair  ! 

Beseech  me  from  the  grass ; 
Wings  frolic  in  the^ir. 

And  graze  me  as  they  pass. 

"  I  yet  shall  be  —  who  knows  ?  — 

A  river  winding  down, 
And  greeting  as  it  flows 

Valley  and  cliff  and  town. 

"  I  *11  broider  with  my  spray 
Stone  bridge  and  granite  quay, 

And  bear  great  ships  away 
Unto  the  long  wide  sea." 


xxx  X  X  X  X  tir  X  X  xxxslrxdbdbxxvx  db  V9 

THE    BROOK 

So  planned  it,  babbling  by, 

As  water  boiling  fast 
Within  a  basin  high. 

To  top  its  brinn  at  last. 

Cradle  by  tomb  is  crossed. 

Giants  are  early  dead. 
Scarce  bom,  the  brook  was  lost 

Within  a  lake's  deep  bed. 


117 


XXX  XX  xxxxxxxxxxxxdbxxxxxdp 

ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 


TOMBS    AND     FUNERAL 
PYRES 

No  grim  cadaver  set  its  flaw 

In  happy  days  of  pagan  art. 
And  man,  content  with  what  he  saw. 

Stripped  not  the  veil  from  beauty's  heart. 

No  form  once  loved  that  buried  lay, 

A  hideous  spectre  to  appal. 
Dropped  bit  by  bit  its  flesh  away. 

As  one  by  one  our  gapnents  fall ; 

Or,  when  the  days  had  drifted  by 

And  sundered  shrank  the  vaulted  stones, 

Showed  naked  to  the  daring  eye 
A  motley  heap  of  rattling  bones. 

But,  rescued  from  the  funeral  pyre. 

Life's  ashen,  light  residuum 

Lay  soft,  and,  spent  the  cleansing  fire. 

The  urn  held  sweet  the  body's  sum,  — 
__ 


TOMBS    AND    FUNERAL    PYRES 

The  sum  of  all  that  earth  may  claim 
Of  the  soul's  butterfly,  soul  passed, — 

All  that  is  left  of  spended  flame 
Upon  the  tripod  at  the  last. 

Between  acanthus  leaves  and  flowers 

In  the  white  marble  gaily  went 
Loves  and  bacchantes  all  the  hours. 

Dancing  about  the  monument. 

At  most,  a  little  Genius  wild 

Trampled  a  flame  out  in  the  gloom. 

And  art's  harmonious  flowering  smiled 
Upon  the  sadness  of  the  tomb. 

The  tomb  was  then  a  pleasant  place. 

As  bed  of  child  that  slumbereth. 
With  many  a  fair  and  laughing  grace 

The  joy  of  life  surrounded  death. 

Then  death  concealed  its  visage  gaunt. 
Whose  sockets  deep,  and  sunken  nose. 

And  railing  mouth  our  spirits  haunt. 
Past  any  dream  that  horror  shows. 

119 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

The  monster  in  flesh  raiment  clad 
Hid  deep  its  spectral  form  uncouth, 

And  virgin  glances,  beauty-glad, 
Sped  frankly  to  the  naked  youth. 

Twas  only  at  Trimalchio's  board 
A  little  skeleton  made  sign, 
An  ivory  plaything  unabhorred. 
To  bid  the  feasters  to  the  wine. 

Gods,  whom  Art  ever  must  avow. 
Ruled  the  marmoreal  sky's  demesne. 

Olympus  yields  to  Calvary,  now; 
Jupiter  to  the  Nazarene  ! 

Voices  are  calling,  *'  Pan  is  dead ! 

Dusk  deepeneth  within,  without. 
On  the  black  sheet  of  sorrow  spread, 

The  whitened  skeleton  gleams  out. 

It  glideth  to  the  headstone  bare. 
And  signs  it  with  a  paraph  wild. 

And  hangs  a  wreath  of  bones  to  glare 
Upon  the  charnel  death-defiled. 

120 


TOMBS    AND     FUNERAL    PYRES 

It  lifts  the  coffin-lid  and  quaffs 
The  musty  air,  and  peers  within, 

Displays  a  ring  of  ribs,  and  laughs 
Forever  with  its  awful  grin. 

It  urges  unto  Death's  fleet  dance 
The  Emperor,  the  Pope,  the  King, 

And  makes  the  pallid  steed  to  prance, 
And  low  the  doughty  warrior  fling ;  — - 

Behind  the  courtesan  steals  up. 
And  makes  wry  faces  in  her  glass ; 

Drinks  from  the  sick  man's  trembling  cup  ; 
Delves  in  the  miser's  golden  mass. 

Above  the  team  it  whirls  the  thong. 
With  bone  for  goad  to  hurry  it. 

Follows  the  plowman's  way  along, 
And  guides  the  furrows  to  a  pit. 

It  comes,  the  uninvited  guest. 

And  lurks  beneath  the  banquet  chair, 

Unseen  from  the  pale  bride  to  wrest 
Her  little  silken  garter  fair. 

121 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

The  number  swells :  the  young  give  hand 
Unto  the  old,  and  none  may  flee. 

The  irresistible  saraband 
Compelleth  all  humanity. 

Forth  speeds  the  tall,  ungainly  fright. 
Playing  the  rebeck,  dancing  mad, 

Against  the  dark  a  frame  of  white. 
As  Holbein  drew  it  — horror-sad  ;— 

Or  if  the  times  be  frivolous. 

Trusses  the  shroud  about  its  hips: 

Then  like  a  Cupid  mischievous, 
Across  the  ballet-room  it  skips. 

And  unto  carven  tombs  it  flies. 
Where  marchionesses  rest  demure. 

Weary  of  love,  in  exquisite  guise. 
In  chapels  dim  and  pompadour. 

But  hide  thy  hideous  form  at  last, 
Worm-eaten  actor  !     Long  enough 

In  death's  wan  melodrama  cast, 

Thou  'st  played  thy  part  without  rebuff. 

122 


TOMBS    AND     FUNERAL    PYRES 

Come  back,  come  back,  O  ancient  Art ! 

And  cover  with  thy  marble's  gleam 
This  Gothic  skeleton !     Each  part 

Consume,  ye  flames  of  fire  supreme  ! 

If  man  be  then  a  creature  made 
In  God's  own  image,  to  aspire, 

When  shattered  must  the  image  fade. 
Let  the  lone  fragments  feed  the  fire ! 

Immortal  form  !  Rise  thou  in  flame 
Again  to  beauty's  fount  of  bloom 

Let  not  thy  clay  endure  the  shame. 
The  degradation  of  the  tomb ! 


123 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 
BJORN'S   BANQUET 

BjORN,  odd  and  lonely  cenobite. 
High  on  a  barren  rock's  plateau, 

Far  out  of  time's  and  the  world's  sight, 
Dwells  in  a  castle  none  may  know. 

No  modern  thought  may  violate 
His  darkened  and  secluded  hall. 

Bjorn  bolts  with  care  his  postern-gate. 
And  barricades  his  castle  wall. 

When  others  wait  the  rising  sun. 
He  from  his  mouldering  parapet 

Still  contemplates  the  valley  dun. 
Where  he  beheld  the  red  sun  set. 

Securely  doth  the  past  enlock 

His  retrospective  spirit  lone. 
The  pendulum  within  his  clock 

Was  broken  centuries  agone. 

Waking  the  echoes  wanders  he 
Beneath  his  feudal  arches  drear. 

His  ringing  footsteps  seemingly 
Followed  by  other  footsteps  clear. 

124 


BJORN'S    BANQUET 

Nor  priests  nor  friends  with  him  make  bold, 
Nor  burghers  plain  nor  gentlemen  ; 

But  his  ancestral  portraits  hold 
A  parley  with  him  now  and  then. 

And  of  a  midnight,  sparing  him 

The  ennui  of  a  lonely  cup, 
Bjorn,  harbouring  a  gloomy  whim, 

Invites  his  ancestors  to  sup. 

Forth  stepping  at  the  hour's  grim  stroke. 
Come  phantoms  armed  from  foot  to  head. 

Bjorn,  quaking,  to  the  solemn  folk 
Proffers  with  state  the  goblet  red. 

To  seat  itself  each  panoply 

With  joints  that  grumble  in  revolt 

Maketh  an  angle  with  its  knee. 
That  creaketh  like  a  rusty  bolt } 

Till  all  at  once  the  suit  of  mail. 

Rude  coffin  of  an  absent  bulk. 
Cleaving  the  silence  with  a  wail. 

Falls  in  its  chair,  a  clanking  hulk. 

125 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

Landgraves  and  burgraves,  spare  and  stout, 
Come  down  from  heaven  or  up  from  hell, 

The  iron  guests  of  many  a  bout. 

Are  bound  within  the  midnight  spell. 

Their  blow-indented  helmets  bear 
Heraldic  beasts  that  bay  and  grin. 

Athwart  the  shades  the  red  lights  glare 
On  crest  and  ancient  lambrequin. 

Each  empty,  open  casque  now  seems 

Like  to  the  helms  of  heraldries. 
Save  for  two  strange  and  livid  gleams 

That  issue  forth  in  threatening  wise. 

Seated  is  each  old  combatant 

In  the  vast  hall,  at  Bjorn's  behest. 

And  the  uncertain  shadows  grant 
A  swarthy  page  to  every  guest. 

The  liquors  in  the  candle-shine 
Take  on  suspicious  purples.     All 

The  viands  in  their  gravy's  wine 
Grow  lurid  and  fantastical. 

126 


BJORN'S    BANQUET 

Sometimes  a  breastplate  glitters  bright, 
A  morion  speeds  its  flashes  wroth, 

A  rondelle  from  a  hand  of  might 
Drops  heavily  upon  the  cloth. 

Heard  are  the  softly  flapping  wings 
Of  unseen  bats.     The  shimmer  flicks 

Upon  the  carven  panellings 
The  banners  of  the  heretics. 

The  stiffly  bended  gauntlets  play 

In  the  dull  glow  incarnadine, 
And,  creaking,  to  the  helmets  gray 

Pour  bumpers  full  of  Rhenish  wine ; 

Or  with  their  daggers  keen  of  blade 
Carve  boars  upon  the  plates  of  gold. 

The  corridor's  uncanny  shade 

Hath  clamours  vague  and  manifold. 

The  orgy  waxes  riotsome  — 

One  could  not  hear  God's  voice  for  it  — 
For  when  a  phantom  sups  from  home, 

What  wrong  if  he  carouse  a  bit  ? 

127 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

Now  every  ghostly  care  they  drown 
With  jokes  and  jeers  and  loud  guffaws. 

A  wine-cascade  is  running  4own 
Each  rusty  helmet's  iron  jaws. 

The  full  and  rounded  hauberks  bulge. 
And  to  the  neck  the  river  mounts. 

Their  eyes  with  Hquid  fire  eiFulge. 

They  're  howling  drunk,  these  valiant  counts ! 

One  through  the  salad  idly  wields 

A  foot ;  another  scolds  the  sick. 
Some  like  the  lions  on  their  shields 

With  gaping  mouths  the  fancy  trick. 

In  voice  still  hoarse  from  silence  long 
In  the  tomb's  dampness  and  restraint. 

Max  playfully  intones  a  song 

Of  thirteen  hundred,  crude  and  quaint. 

Albrecht,  of  quarrelsome  repute. 

Stirs  right  and  left  a  war  intense. 

And  drubs  about  with  fist  and  foot. 

As  once  he  drubbed  the  Saracens. 
_ 


BJQRN'S    BANQUET 

And  heated  Fritz  his  helmet  dofFs, 
Not  deeming  he's  a  headless  trunk. 

Then  down  pell-mell  mid  roars  and  scoffs 
Together  roll  the  phantoms  drunk. 

Ah  !     'T  is  a  hideous  battle-ground. 

Where  pots  and  weapons  bang  and  scud. 

Where  every  dead  man  through  some  wound 
Doth  vomit  victuals  up  for  blood. 

And  Bjorn  observes  them,  sad  of  eye. 
And  haggard,  while  athwart  the  panes 

The  dawn  comes  creeping  stealthily. 

With  blue,  thin  lights,  and  darkness  wanes. 

The  prostrate  mass  of  rusty  brown 
Pales  like  a  torch  in  daylight's  room. 

Until  the  drunkest  pours  him  down 
At  last  the  stirrup-cup  of  doom. 

The  cock  crows  loud.     And  with  the  day 
Once  more  with  haughty  mien  and  bold. 

Their  revel-weary  heads  they  lay 
Upon  their  marble  pillows  cold. 


129 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 


THE   WATCH 


Now  twice  my  watch  have  I  taken, 
And  twice  as  I  Ve  gazing  sat. 

The  hand  has  pointed  unshaken 
To  one  —  and  it 's  long  past  that ! 

The  clock's  light  cadences  linger. 

The  sun-dial  laughs  from  the  lawn, 
And  points  with  a  long,  gaunt  finger 

The  path  that  its  shade  has  drawn. 

A  steeple  ironically 

Calls  the  true  time  to  me. 
The  belfry  bell  makes  tally 

And  taunts  me  with  accents  free. 

Ah,  dead  is  the  wretch  !  I  sought  not. 
Last  night,  to  my  reverie  sold. 

Its  ruby  circle !  I  thought  not 
Of  glimmering  key  of  gold  ! 

No  longer  I  see  with  pleasure 
The  spring  of  the  balance-wheel 

Flit  hither  and  there  at  measure. 
Like  a  butterfly  form  of  steel. 

130 


THE    WATCH 

When  HippogrifF  bears  me,  yearning, 
Through  skies  of  another  sphere. 

My  soul-reft  body  goes  turning 
Wherever  the  steed  may  veer. 

Eternity  still  is  giving 

Its  gaze  to  the  lifeless  face. 
Time  seekcth  the  heart  once  living, 

His  ear  at  the  old  watch-case, — 

That  heart  whose  regular  motion 
Was  followed  within  my  breast 

By  wave-beats  of  life's  full  ocean  1 
Ah  well !  the  watch  is  at  rest. 

But  its  brother  is  beating  ever. 

Steadfast  and  sturdy  kept 
By  One  Who  forgetteth  never,  — 

Who  wound  it  the  while  I  slept. 


131 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

THE    MERMAIDS 

There's  a  sketch  you  may  discover 

By  an  artist  of  degree 
Rime  and  metre  quarrel  over  — 

Theophile  Kniatowski. 

On  the  snowy  foam  that  fringes 

All  the  mantle  of  the  brine, 
Radiant  with  the  sunlight's  tinges. 

Three  mermaidens  softly  shine. 

Like  the  drowned  lilies  dancing 
Turn  they,  as  the  spiral  wave 

Buoys  their  bodies  hiding,  glancing. 
As  they  sink  and  rise  and  lave. 

In  their  golden  hair  for  dowers 

They  have  twined  with  beauteous  hands 
Shells  for  diadems,  and  flowers 

From  the  deep  wild  under  sands. 

Oysters  pour  a  pearly  hoarding 
Their  enrapturing  throats  to  gem. 

And  the  wave,  its  wealth  according. 
Tosses  other  pearls  to  them. 

132 


THE    MERMAIDS 

Borne  above  the  crest  of  ocean 

By  a  Triton  hand  and  strong, 
Twine  they,  beautiful  of  motion. 

Under  gleaming  tresses  long. 

And  the  crystal  water  under, 

Down  the  blue  the  glories  pale 
Of  each  lovely  form  of  wonder. 

Tapered  to  a  shimmering  tail. 

Ah  !  But  who  the  scaly  swimmers 
Would  behold  in  modern  day  — 

When  a  bust  of  ivory  glimmers. 
Cool  from  kisses  of  the  spray  ? 

Look !  Oh,  mingled  truth  and  fable  ! 

O'er  the  horizon  steady  plied. 
Comes  a  vessel  proud  and  stable. 

Toward  the  mermaids  terrified  ! 

Tricoloured  its  ftag  is  flaunted. 

And  it  vomits  vapour  red. 
And  it  beats  the  billows  daunted. 

Till  the  nymphs  dive  low  for  dread. 

133 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

Fearlessly  they  did  beleaguer 

Triremes  immemorial, 
And  the  dolphins  arched  and  eager 

Waited  for  Arion's  call. 

This  of  old.     But  now  the  steamer  — 
Vulcan  hurtling  Venus'  charms, — 

Would  destroy  the  siren  gleamer. 
With  her  fair,  nude  tail  and  arms. 

Farewell  myth  !     The  boat  that  passes 

Thinks  to  see  on  silver  bar. 
Where  the  widening  billow  glasses, 

Porpoises -that  plunge  afar. 


13+ 


TWO    LOVE-LOCKS 


TWO    LOVE-LOCKS 

Reviving  languorous  dreaming 
Of  conquered,  conquering  eye, 

Upon  thy  forehead  gleaming. 
Two  fairest  love-locks  lie. 

I  sec  them  softly  nesting, 
Of  wondrous,  golden  sheen, 

Like  little  wheels  come  resting 
From  car  of  Mab  the  Queen  j 

Or  bows  of  Cupid  ready 
To  let  the  arrows  fly. 
Bent  circlewise  and  steady 
For  archer's  mastery. 

One  heart  have  I  of  passion. 

Yet  two  love-locks  are  thine! 
O  brow  of  fickle  fashion  I 

Whose  heart  is  caught  with  mine  ? 

135 


irdbdb  tfc  4:  db  4r  :4r  db  ir  *^:fcdb:fc?l?tfc!fcdfcdk?b  si:  :fcdfe 

ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

THE     TEA-ROSE 

Most  beautiful  of  all  the  roses 
Is  this  half-open  bud,  whose  bare, 

Unpetalled  heart  a  dream  discloses 
Of  carmine  very  faint  and  fair. 

I  wonder,  was  it  once  a  white  rose. 

Till  butterfly  too  ardent  spoke 
A  language  soft,  and  in  the  light  rose 

A  shyer,  warmer  tint  awoke  ? 

Its  delicate  fabric  hath  the  colour 

Of  lovely  and  velutinous  skin. 
Its  perfect  freshness  maketh  duller 

Environing  hues  incarnadine. 

For  as  some  rare  patrician  features 
Eclipse  the  brows  of  ruddier  gleam. 

So  masquerade  as  rustic  creatures 
Gay  sisters  of  this  rose  supreme. 

But,  dear  one,  if  your  hand  caress  it. 
And  raise  it  for  its  sweet  perfume. 

Ere  yet  your  velvet  cheek  shall  press  it, 
'Twill  fade  before  a  fairer  bloom. 

136 


THE    TEA-ROSE 

No  rose  in  all  the  world  so  tender. 
That  gloweth  in  the  springtime  fleet, 

But  shall  its  every  charm  surrender 
Unto  your  seventeen  years,  my  sweet. 

A  face  hath  more  than  petal's  power : 
A  pure  heart's  blood  that  blushing  flows 

O'er  youth's  nobility,  is  flower 
High  sovereign  over  every  rose. 


137 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

CARMEN 

Slender  is  Carmen,  of  lissome  guise. 
Her  hair  is  black  as  the  midnight's  heart ; 

Dark  circles  are  under  her  gypsy  eyes. 
Her  swarthy  skin  is  the  devil's  art. 

The  women  will  mock  at  her  form  and  face  j 
But  the  men  will  follow  her  all  the  day. 

Toledo's  Archbishop  (now  save  His  Grace !) 
Tones  his  mass  at  her  knees,  they  say. 

Nestled  in  warmth  of  her  amber  neck 
Lies  a  massive  coil,  till  she  fling  it  down 

To  be  a  raiment  to  frame  and  deck 
Her  delicate  body  from  foot  to  crown. 

Then  out  from  her  pallid  face  with  power 
Her  witching,  terrible  smiles  compel. 

Her  mouth  is  a  mystical  poison-flower 

That  hath  drawn  its  crimson  from  hearts  in  hell. 

The  haughtiest  beauty  must  yield  her  fame. 
When  this  strange  vision  shall  dusk  her  sky. 

For  Carmen  rules,  and  her  glance's  flame 
Shall  set  the  torch  to  satiety. 


CARMEN 

W  ild,  graceless  Carmen  !  —  Though  yet  this  be, 
Savour  she  hath  of  a  world  undreamt, 

Of  a  world  of  wonder,  whose  salt  young  sea 
Provoked  a  Venus  to  rise  and  tempt. 


139 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 


WHAT    THE    SWALLOWS    SAY 

AN     AUTUMN     SONG 

The  dry,  brown  leaves  have  dropped  forlorn, 

And  lie  amid  the  golden  grass. 
The  wind  is  fresh  both  eve  and  morn. 

But  where  are  summer  days,  alas ! 

The  tardy  flowers  the  autumn  stayed 

For  latter  treasures  now  unfold. 
The  dahlia  dons  its  gay  cockade. 

Its  flaming  cap  the  marigold. 

Rain  stirs  the  pool  with  pelt  and  shock. 

The  swallows  to  the  roof  repair, 
Confabulating  as  they  flock 

And  feel  the  winter  in  the  air. 

By  hundreds  gather  they  to  vow 
Their  little  yearnings  and  intents. 

Saith  one  :  "  'T  is  fair  in  Athens  now, 
Upon  the  sun-warm  battlements ! 

140 


WHAT    THE    SWALLOWS    SAY 

"  Thither  I  go  to  take  my  nap 

Upon  the  Parthenon  high  and  free. 

My  cornice  nest  is  in  the  gap 
•A  cannon-ball  made  there  for  me.** 

And  one  :  "  A  ceiling  meets  my  needs 

Within  a  Smyrna  cofFee-house, 
Where  Hadjis  tell  their  amber  beads 

Upon  the  threshold  luminous. 

*'  I  go  and  come  above  the  folk, 

While  their  chibouques  their  clouds  upfling. 
I  skim  along  through  silver  smoke, 

And  graze  the  turbans  with  my  wing." 

Another :  "  There 's  a  triglyph  gray 
On  one  of  Baalbec's  temples  high. 

*T  is  there  I  go  to  brood  all  day 
Above  my  little  family." 

Another  calleth,  "  My  address 

Is  settled  :  *  At  the  Knights  of  Rhodes.' 

In  a  dark  colonnade's  recess 

I  '11  make  the  snuggest  of  abodes." 

141 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

"  Old  age  hath  made  me  slow  for  flight," 
Declares  a  fifth  ;  "  I  '11  rest  at  even 

On  Malta's  terraces  of  white, 

Where  blue  sea  melts  to  blue  of  heaven." 

A  sixth  :  "  In  Cairo  is  my  home, 

Up  in  a  minaret's  retreat : 
A  twig  or  two,  a  bit  of  loam  — 

My  winter  lodgings  are  complete." 

A  last :  "  The  Second  Cataract 

Shall  mark  my  place  —  the  nest  of  brown 
A  granite  king  doth  hold  intact 

Within  the  circle  of  his  crown." 

And  all  together  sing :  "  What  miles 
To-morrow  shall  have  stretched  beneath 

Our  fleeing  swarm :  —  remembered  isles. 
Snow  peaks,  vast  waters,  lands  of  heath  !  " 

With  calls  and  cries  and  beat  of  wings, 
Grown  eager  now  and  venturesome, 

The  swallows  hold  their  twitterings. 
To  see  the  blight  of  winter  come. 

142 


L  [v  A  ;vl  1.  L  i>    A  1>*  U     U  A  i\l  iL.ij::i 

.  ...-,. ..,  ■  ,  III'.-.  .1,1  -        I.J....n.  i        ,■„.     ..I.. 

*♦  O!  h  made  me  slow  for  f 

D  VU  rest  at  even 

W>c.     hluc  %e>  .•  of  heaven." 

xUi:  **In  Cairo  b  my  home, 

''>     8fc^l^4SH*''SSl^RN-A''^OFFEE-HoUSE 
A  photogravui*  Trom  a  painting  by  F.  A.  Bridgman 


c  Second  Cataract 
i^hal!  mark  my  phcr — the  nest 

-anite  king  d^  ntact 

" ' '  ithin  the  circle  oi  his  crown.** 

■    ''  together  »ing     "  What  tni^- 

.-(rrow  *.ri:.i'  rave  $trctchcc . . 

Our  ffrein^  '^  pemembefed  islca, 

^t  watery  lands  of  heatfa  !  ** 

Jnd  one:  "J  ceiling  meets  my  needs-. ^ 

Within  <7  Smwna  coffee-bQUse. 
Where  IRadjis^  fell  their  apiher  beads 
XJpori  ihe  i^rtshotd  luminous.^  * 

H'    ■"'•;.   ■  '■''  A-intcv  come. 


WHAT    THE    SWALLOWS    SAY 

And  I  —  I  understand  them  all. 

Because  the  poet  is  a  bird,  — 
Oh  !  but  a  sorry  bird,  and  thrall 

To  a  great  lack,  pressed  heavenward. 

It's  Oh  for  wings !  to  seek  the  star. 
To  count  the  seas  when  day  is  done, 

To  breast  the  air  with  swallows  far. 
To  verdant  spring,  to  golden  sun  ! 


'43 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 


CHRISTMAS 

Black  is  the  sky  and  white  the  ground. 

O  ring,  ye  bells,  your  carol's  grace ! 
The  Child  is  born !  A  love  profound 

Beams  o'er  Him  from  His  Mother's  face. 

No  silken  woof  of  costly  show 

Keeps  ofF  the  bitter  cold  from  Him. 

But  spider-webs  have  drooped  them  low, 
To  be  His  curtain  soft  and  dim. 

Now  trembles  on  the  straw  downspread 
The  Little  Child,  the  Star  beneath. 

To  warm  Him  in  His  holy  bed, 
Upon  Him  ox  and  ass  do  breathe. 

Snow  hangs  its  fringes  on  the  byre. 

The  roof  stands  open  to  the  tryst 
Of  aureoled  saints,  that  sweetly  choir 

To  shepherds,  "  Come,  behold  the  Christ ! 


144 


THE    DEAD    CHILD'S    PLAYTHINGS 


THE   DEAD    CHILD'S  PLAY- 
THINGS 

Marie  comes  no  more  at  call. 

She  has  wandered  from  her  play. 
Ah,  how  pitifully  small 

Was  the  coffin  borne  away  ! 

See  —  about  the  nursery  floor 

All  her  little  heritage  : 
Rubber  ball  and  battledore. 

Tattered  book  and  coloured  page. 

Poor  forsaken  doll !  in  vain 

Stretch  your  arms.     She  will  not  come. 
Stopped  forever  is  the  train. 

And  the  music-box  is  dumb. 

Some  one  touched  it  soft,  apart. 
Where  the  silence  is  her  name. 

And  what  sinking  of  the  heart 
At  the  plaintive  note  that  came ! 

lo  145 


dbdb  !lr  db  i;  db  db  d:  d:  ir  ir^ir  tlrtlr^kskdbdb^rdlr  db  db^ 

ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

Ah,  the  anguish  !  when  the  tomb 
Robs  the  cradle ;  when  bereft 

We  discover  in  the  gloom 
Child  toys  that  an  angel  left. 


146 


AFTER   WRITING    MY  REVIEW 


AFTER  WRITING   MY 
DRAMATIC   REVIEW 

My  columns  are  ranged  and  steady, 
Upbearing,  though  sad  forespent, 
The  newspaper  pediment. 

And  my  review  is  ready. 

Now  for  a  week,  poetaster. 
My  door  is  bolted.     Away, 
Thou  still-born  masterpiece,  —  aye, 

Till  Monday  I  am  my  master. 

No  melodrama  shall  whiten 

My  labour  with  threadbare  leaves. 
The  warp  that  my  fancy  weaves 

With  silken  flowers  shall  brighten. 

Brief  moment  my  spirit's  warder. 
Ye  voices  of  soul  that  float, 
I  *11  hearken  your  sorrow's  note. 

Nor  verses  evoke  to  order. 

147 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

Then  deep  in  my  glass  regaining 
The  health  of  a  day  gone  by,  — 
Old  visions  for  company  — 

The  bloom  of  my  vintage  draining, 

The  wine  of  my  thought  I  '11  measure. 
Wine  virgin  of  alien  glow, 
Grapes  trodden  by  life,  that  flow 

From  my  heart  at  my  heart's  own  pleasure  I 


148 


xxdb  V  X  X  V  dp  X  X  trxxdbx  drdb^  T^dbtl?  s 

THE    CASTLE   OF    REMEMBRANCE 


THE    CASTLE   OF 
REMEMBRANCE 

Before  my  hearth  with  head  low-bowed 
I  dream,  and  strive  to  reach  again. 

Across  the  misty  past's  gray  cloud. 
Unto  Remembrance's  domain. 

Where  tree  and  house  and  upland  way 
Are  blurred  and  blue  like  passing  ghosts, 

And  the  eye,  ponder  though  it  may. 
Consults  in  vain  the  guiding-posts. 

Now  gropingly  to  gain  a  sight 
Of  all  the  buried  world,  I  press 

Through  mystic  marge  of  shade  and  light 
And  limbo  of  forgetfulness. 

But  white,  diaphanous  Memory  stands. 
Where  many  roadways  meet  and  spread. 

Like  Ariadne,  in  my  hands 

Thrusting  her  little  ball  of  thread. 

149 


XXX  X  X  X  db  X  X  X  V  vdbtlrxdpxxxxx 

ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

Henceforth  the  way  is  all  secure. 

The  shrouded  sun  hath  reappeared. 
And  o'er  the  trees  with  vision  sure 

I  see  the  castle  tower  upreared. 

Beneath  the  boughs  where  day  grows  dark 

With  shower  on  shower  of  leaves  down-poured 

The  dear  old  path  through  moss  and  bark 
Still  lengthens  far  its  narrow  cord. 

But  creeping-plant  and  bramble-spray 
Have  wrought  a  net  to  daunt  me  now. 

The  stubborn  branch  I  force  away 
Swings  fiercely  back  to  lash  my  brow. 

I  come  upon  the  house  at  last. 

No  window  lit  with  lamp  or  face. 
No  breath  of  smoke  from  gables  vast, 

To  touch  with  life  the  mouldering  place ! 

Bridges  are  crumbling.     Moats  are  still, 
And  slimed  with  rank,  green  refuse-flowers. 

And  tortuous  waves  of  ivy  fill 

The  crevices  and  choke  the  towers. 

150 


THE   CASTLE    OF    REMEMBRANCE 

The  portico  in  moonlight  wanes. 

Time  sculptures  it  to  suit  his  whim. 
And  with  the  wash  of  many  rains 

My  coloured  coat  of  arms  is  dim. 

The  door  I  open  eagerly. 

The  ancient  hinges  creak  and  halt. 
A  breath  of  dampness  wafts  to  me 

The  musty  odour  of  the  vault. 

The  hairy  nettle  sharp  of  sting, 

The  coarse  and  broad-leafed  burdock  weed 
In  court-yard  nooks  are  prospering. 

By  spreading  hemlocks  canopied. 

Upon  two  marble  monsters  near. 

That  guard  the  mossy  steps  of  stone. 

The  shadow  of  a  tree  falls  clear. 
That  in  my  absence  has  upgrown. 

Sudden  the  lion  sentinels  raise 

Their  paws,  aggressive  and  malign. 

And  challenge  me  with  their  white  gaze ; 
But  soft  I  breathe  the  countersign. 

151 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

I  pass.     The  old  dog  menaceth, 

But  falls  back  hushed,  the  shades  amid. 

My  resonant  footstep  wakeneth 

Crouched  echoes  in  their  corners  hid. 

Through  yellow  panes  of  glass  a  ray 
Of  dubious  light  creeps  down  the  hall 

Where  ancient  tapestries  display 
Apollo's  fortunes  from  the  wall. 

Fair  tree-bound  Daphne  still  with  grace 
Stretches  her  tufted  fingers  green. 

But  in  the  amorous  god's  embrace 
She  fades,  a  formless  phantom  seen. 

I  watch  divine  Apollo  stand, 

Herdsman  to  acarus-riddled  sheep, 

The  Muses  Nine,  a  haggard  band. 
Upon  a  faded  Pindus  weep ; 

While  Solitude  in  scanty  gown 
Traces  "  Desertion  "  in  the  dust 

That  through  the  air  she  sifteth  down 
Upon  a  marble  stand  august. 

152 


THE   CASTLE   OF    REMEMBRANCE 

And  now,  among  forgotten  things, 

I  find,  like  sleepers  manifold, 
Pastels  bedimmed,  dark  picturings. 

Young  beauties,  and  the  friends  of  old. 

.  My  faltering  fingers  lift  a  crape,  — 

And  lo,  my  love  with  look  and  lure ! 
With  puffing  skirts  and  prisoned  shape  ! 
Cidalise  a  la  Pompadour ! 

A  tender,  blossoming  rose  she  feels 
Against  her  ribboned  bodice  pressed. 

Whose  lace  half  hides  and  half  reveals 
A  snowy,  azure-veined  breast. 

Within  her  eyes  gleam  sparkles  lush. 
As  on  the  rime-kissed,  deadened  leaves. 

Upon  her  cheek  a  purple  flush  — 

Death's  own  cosmetic  hue  !  —  deceives. 

She  startles  as  I  come  before. 
And  fixeth  soft  on  me  her  eyes. 

Reproachfully  forevermore, 

Yet  with  a  charm  and  witching  wise. 

153 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

Life  bore  me  from  thee  at  its  will, 
Yet  on  my  heart  thy  name  is  laid. 

Thou  dead  delight,  that  lingereth  still. 
Bedizened  for  the  masquerade ! 

Envious  of  Art,  fair  Nature  wrought 
To  overpass  Murillo's  fame, — 

From  Andalusia  here  she  brought 

The  face  that  lights  the  second  frame. 

By  some  poetical  caprice. 

Our  atmosphere  of  mist  and  cloud. 
With  rare  exotic  charm's  increase 

This  other  Petra  Camara  dowed. 

Warm  orange  tones  are  gilding  yet 
Her  lovely  skin  of  roseate  hue. 

Her  eyelids  fair  have  lashes  jet 

Th^t  beams  of  sunshine  filter  through. 

There  shimmers  fine  a  pearly  gleam 
Between  her  scarlet  lips  elate ; 

Her  beauty  flashes  forth  supreme  — 
A  bright  south  summer  pomegranate. 

154 


THE   CASTLE   OF    REMEMBRANCE 

Long  to  the  sound  of  Spain's  guitar, 
I  told  her  praise  'mid  song  and  glass. 

She  came  alone  one  evenstar, 
And  all  my  room  Alhambra  was. 

Farther  I  see  a  robust  Fair,  ^^ 

With  strong  and  gem-beladen  arms. 

In  pearls  of  price  and  velvet  fare 
Are  set  her  ivoiy  bosom's  charms. 

Her  ennui  is  a  weary  queen's. 

An  adulating  court  amid. 
Superb,  aloof,  her  hand  she  leans 

Upon  a  casket's  jewelled  lid. 

Her  sensuous  lips  their  crimes  confess, 
As  crimson  with  the  blood  of  hearts. 

With  brutal,  mad  voluptuousness 

Her  conquering  eye  a  challenge  darts. 

Here  dwells,  in  lieu  of  tender  grace. 

Vertiginous  allure,  whereof 
A  cruel  Venus  ruled  a  race,, 

Presiding  o'er  malignant  love. 

155 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

Unnatural  mother  to  her  child, 

This  Venus  all  imperative  ! 
O  thou,  my  bitter  joy  and  wild,  — 

Farewell  forever  !     I  foi^ive  ! 

Within  its  frame  in  shadow  fine, 
The  misty  glass  that  still  endures 

Reveals  another  face  than  mine, — 
The  earliest  of  my  portraitures. 

A  retrospective  ghost,  with  face 

Of  vanished  type,  steps  from  the  vast 

Dim  mirror  of  his  biding-place 
In  tenebrous,  forgotten  past. 

Gay  in  his  doublet  satin-rose. 
Coloured  in  bold  and  vivid  way. 

He  seems  as  if  about  to  pose 
For  Deveria  or  Boulanger. 

\ 
Terror  of  glabrous  commoner. 

His  flowing  locks  in  royal  guise. 

Like  mane  of  lion,  or  sinister 

King's  hair,  fall  heavy  to  his  thighs. 

^^6 


THE    CASTLE    OF    REMEMBRANCE 

Romanticist  of  bold  conceit, 

Knight  of  an  art  which  strives  anew, 

He  hurled  himself  at  Drama's  feet. 
When  erst  Hernani's  trumpet  blew. 

Night  falls.     The  corners  are  astir 
With  many  shapes  and  shadows  tall. 

The  Unknown  —  grim  stage-carpenter  — 
Sets  up  its  darksome  frights  o'er  all. 

A  sudden  burst  of  candles,  weird 
With  aureoles,  like  lamps  of  death  ! 

The  room  is  populous,  and  bleared 
With  folk  brought  hither  by  a  breath  ! 

Down  step  the  portraits  from  the  wall,  — 

A  ruddy-litten  company ! 
Circling  the  fireplace  in  the  hall. 

Where  the  wood  blazes  suddenly. 

The  figures  wrested  from  the  tombs 
Have  lost  their  rigid,  frozen  mien. 

The  gradual  glow  of  life  illumes 
The  Past  with  flush  incarnadine. 

157 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

A  colour  lights  the  faces  pale. 
As  in  the  days  of  old  delight. 

Friends  whom  my  thought  shall  never  fail, 
I  thank  ye,  that  ye  came  to-night ! 

Now  eighteen-thirty  shows  to  me 
Its  great  and  valiant-hearted  men. 

(Ah,  like  Otranto's  pirates,  we 

Who  were  an  hundred,  are  but  ten  !) 

And  one  his  reddish  beard  spreads  out, 

Like  Barbarossa  in  his  cave. 
Another  his  mustachio  stout 

Curls  at  the  ends  in  fashion  suave. 

Under  the  ample  fold  that  cloaks 

An  ever  unrevealed  ill, 
Petrus  a  cigarette  now  smokes, 

Naming  it  "  papelito  "  still. 

Another  cometh,  fain  to  tell 

His  visions  and  his  hopes  supreme. 

Like  Icarus  on  the  sands  he  fell, 

Where  lie  all  broken  shafts  of  dream. 


THE    CASTLE    OF    REMEMBRANCE 

And  one  a  drama  hath  begot, 

Planned  after  some  new  model's  freak, 

Which,  merging  all  things  in  its  plot. 
Makes  Calderon  with  Moliere  speak. 

Tom,  late  forsaken  by  his  Dear, 

Love's  Labour  's  Lost  must  low  recite ; 

And  Fritz  to  Cidalise  makes  clear 
Faust's  vision  of  Walpurgis  Night. 

But  dawn  comes  through  the  window  free. 

Diaphanous  the  phantoms  grow. 
The  objects  of  reality 

Strike  through  their  shapes  that  mei^e  and  go. 

The  candles  are  consumed  away. 

The  ember-lights  no  longer  gleam 
Upon  the  hearth.     No  thing  shall  stay. 

Farewell,  O  castle  of  my  dream  ! 

December  gray  shall  turn  once  more 
The  glass  of  Time,  for  all  we  fret ! 

The  present  enters  at  my  door. 
And  vainly  bids  me  to  forget. 


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sirdbir  iri;  db  ^  db  db  db  ^dbdbdbdb:(b  tbdrtibdbdb  ^  dbdb 

ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 


CAMELLIA    AND    MEADOW- 
DAISY 

We  praise  the  hot-house  flowers  that  loom 
Far  from  their  native  sun  and  shade, 

The  flaring  forms  that  flaunt  their  bloom. 
Like  jewels  under  glass  displayed. 

With  never  breeze  to  kiss  their  heads, 
They  have  their  birth  and  live  and  die 

On  costly,  artificial  beds, 
Beneath  an  ever-crystal  sky. 

For  whomsoever  idly  scans. 
Baring  their  treasures  to  entice. 

Like  fair  and  sumptuous  courtesans. 
They  stand  for  sale  at  golden  price. 

Fine  porcelain  holds  their  gathered  groups, 
Or  glove-clad  fingers  fondle  them 

Between  the  dances,  till  each  droops 
Upon  a  limp  or  broken  stem. 

1 60 


CAMELLIA   AND    MEADOW-DAISY 

But  down  amid  the  grass  unreaped, 
Shunning  the  curious,  in  repose 

And  silence  all  the  long  day  steeped, 
A  little  woodland  daisy  blows. 

A  butterfly  upon  the  wing 

To  point  the  place,  a  casual  look. 

And  you  surprise  the  sweet,  shy  thing. 
Within  its  calm,  sequestered  nook. 

Beneath  the  blue  it  openeth. 

Rising  on  slender,  vernal  rod. 
Spreading  its  soul  in  fragrant  breath 

For  solitude  and  for  its  God. 

And  proud  camellias  tall  and  white, 

Red%ulips  in  a  flaming  mass. 
Are  all  at  once  forgotten  quite. 

For  the  small  flower  amid  the  grass. 


i6i 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 


THE    FELLAH 

On  seeing  a  Water-Colour  by  Princess  Mathilde 

Caprice  of  brush  fantastical, 

And  of  imperial  idleness, 
Your  fellah-sphinx  presents  us  all 

With  an  enigma  worth  the  guess. 

A  rigid  fashion,  verily. 

This  mask,  this  garment,  seem  to  us. 
Intriguing  with  its  mystery 

The  ball-room's  every  CEdipus. 

Isis  bequeathed  her  veil  of  old 

To  modern  daughters  of  the  Nile. 

But  through  this  band  austere,  behold. 
Two  stars  of  radiance  beam  and  smtle,  — 

Two  stars,  two  eyes,  two  poems  that  spring, 
The  soft,  voluptuous  fires  whereof 

Resolve  the  riddle,  murmuring  : 

*'  Lo,  I  am  Beauty  !     Be  thou  Love  !  " 

162 


THE    GARRET 

THE    GARRET 

From  balcony  tiles  where  casual  cats 

Sit  low  in  wait  for  birds  unwise, 
I  see  the  worn  and  riven  slats 

Of  a  poor,  humble  garret  rise. 

Now  could  I  as  an  author  lie. 

To  give  you  comfort  as  you  think. 

Its  window  I  would  falsify, 

And  frame  with  flowers  refined  and  pink. 

And  place  within  it  Rigolctte 

With  her  cheap  looking-glass,  somehow, 

Whose  broken  glazing  mirrors  yet 
A  portion  of  her  pretty  brow ; 

Or  Margery,  her  dress  undone. 

Her  hair  blown  free,  her  tie  forgot. 

Watering  in  the  pleasant  sun 

Her  pail-encompassed  garden-plot  j 

Or  poet-youth  whom  fame  awaits. 

Who  scans  his  verse  and  eyes  the  hills. 
Or  in  a  reverie  contemplates 

Montmartre  with  its  distant  mills. 

■*■-'■''--■  ■    ■    i-iiiii 

163 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

Alas  !  my  garret  is  no  feint. 

There  climbeth  no  convolvulus. 
The  window  with  its  nibbled  paint 

Leers  filmy  and  unluminous. 

Alike  for  artist  and  grisette. 

Alike  for  widower  and  lad, 
A  garret  —  save  to  music  set  — 

Is  never  otherwise  than  sad. 

Of  old,  beneath  an  angle  pent. 
That  forced  the  forehead  to  a  kiss, 

Love,  with  a  folding-couch  content. 
To  chat  with  Susan  deemed  it  bliss. 

But  we  must  wad  our  bliss  about 

With  cushioned  walls  and  laces  wide. 

And  silks  that  flutter  in  and  out. 
O'er  beds  by  Monbro  canopied. 

This  evening,  to  Mount  Breda  fled 

Is  Rigolette,  to  linger  there. 
And  Margery,  well  clothed  and  fed. 

No  longer  tends  her  garden  fair. 

164 


THE    GARRET 

The  poet,  tired  of  catching  rimes 
Upon  the  wing,  has  turned  to  cull 

Reporter's  bays,  and  left  betimes 
A  heaven  for  an  entresol. 

And  in  the  window  this  is  all : 
An  ancient  goody  chattering, 

And  railing  at  a  kitten  small 
That  toys  forever  with  a  string. 


165 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

THE   CLOUD 

Lightly  in  the  azure  air 

Soars  a  cloud,  emerging  free 
Like  a  virgin  from  the  fair 
Blue  sea ; 

Or  an  Aphrodite  sweet, 

Floating  upright  and  empearled 
In  the  shell,  about  its  feet 
Foam-curled. 

Undulating  overhead. 

How  its  changing  body  glows ! 
On  its  shoulder  dawn  hath  spread 
A  rose. 

Marble,  snow,  blend  amorously 

In  that  form  by  sunlight  kissed  — 
Slumbering  Antiope 
Of  mist ! 

Sailing  unto  distant  goal, 

Over  Alps  and  Apennines, 

Sister  of  the  woman-soul. 

It  shines ; 

_- 


THE    CLOUD 

Till  my  heart  flies  forth  at  last 

On  the  wings  of  passion  warm, 
And  I  yearn  to  gather  fast 
Its  form. 

Reason  saith  :  "  Mere  vapour  thing ! 
Bursting  bubble  !     Yet,  we  deem. 
Holds  this  wind-distorted  ring 
Our  dream." 

Faith  declareth  :  "  Beauty  seen. 

Like  a  cloud,  is  but  a  thought. 
Or  a  breath,  that,  having  been. 
Is  naught. 

"  Have  thy  vision.     Build  it  proud. 
Let  thy  soul  be  full  thereof. 
Love  a  woman  —  love  a  cloud  — 
But  love ! " 


167 


4:dt  4r :!:  :fc  4:  Jf  *  4:  :lr  irirtfcdbirdb^rfctl?:!::!?  i  dbtl: 

ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

THE    BLACKBIRD 

A  BIRD  from  yonder  branch  at  dawn 

Is  trilling  forth  a  joyful  note. 
Or  hopping  o'er  the  frozen  lawn, 

In  yellow  boots  and  ebon  coat. 

It  is  the  blackbird  credulous. 

Little  of  calendar  knows  he, 
Whose  soul,  with  sunbeams  luminous, 

Sings  April  to  the  snows  that  be. 

Rain  sweeps  in  torrents  unrepressed. 

The  Arve  makes  dull  the  Rhone  with  mire. 
The  pleasant  hall  retains  its  guest 

In  goodly  cheer  before  the  fire. 

The  mountains  have  their  ermine  on. 

Each  one  a  mighty  magistrate. 
And  hold  grave  conference  upon 

A  case  of  Winter  lasting  late. 

The  bird  dries  well  his  wing,  and  long, 
Despite  the  rains,  the  mists  that  roll. 

Insists  upon  his  little  song. 

Believes  in  Spring  with  all  his  soul. 


THE    BLACKBIRD 

He  softly  chides  the  slumberous  morn 

For  dallying  so  long  abed, 
And  bids  the  shivering  flower  forlorn 

Be  bold,  and  raise  aloft  its  head  i 

Behind  the  dark  sees  day  that  smiles. 
Even  as  behind  the  Holy  Rod, 

When  bare  the  altar,  dim  the  aisles. 
The  child  of  faith  beholds  his  God. 

He  trusts  to  Nature's  purpose  high. 
Sure  of  her  laws  for  here  and  now. 

Who  laughs  at  thy  philosophy. 

Dear  blackbird,  is  less  wise  than  thou ! 


169 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 


THE   FLOWER   THAT    MAKES 
THE    SPRINGTIME 

The  chestnut  trees  are  soon  to  flower 
At  fair  Saint  yean,  the  villa  dipped 

In  sun,  before  whose  viny  tower 

Stretch  purple  mountains  silver-tipped. 

The  little  leaves  that  yesterday 
Pressed  in  their  bodices  were  seen 

Have  put  their  sober  garb  away, 

And  touched  the  tender  twigs  with  green. 

But  vainly  do  the  sunbeams  fill 

The  branches  with  a  flood  of  light. 

The  shy  bud  hesitateth  still 

To  show  the  secret  thyrse  of  white. 

And  yet  the  rosy  peach-tree  blooms, 
Like  some  faint  blush  of  first  desire. 

The  apple  waves  a  wealth  of  plumes. 
And  laughs  in  all  its  fresh  attire. 

170 


FLOWER    THAT    MAKES    SPRING 

To  bask  amid  the  buttercups 

The  timid  speedwell  ventures  out. 

Nature  calls  every  earthling  up, 
And  reassures  each  tiny  sprout. 

Yet  I  must  off  to  other  sphere ! 

Then  please  your  poet,  chestnuts  tall, 
Yea,  spread  ye  forth  without  a  fear 

Your  firework  bloom  fantastical ! 

I  know  your  summer  splendour's  pride. 

I  've  seen  you  standing  sumptuous 
In  autumn's  tunics  purple-dyed, 

With  golden  circlets  luminous. 

In  winter  white  and  crystal-crossed 
Your  delicate  boughs  I  saw  again,  — 

Like  lovely  traceries  the  frost 

Limns  lightly  on  the  window-pane. 

Your  every  garment  I  have  known. 
Ye  chestnuts  grand  that  loom  aloft,  — 

Save  one  to  me  you  've  never  shown. 
Of  young  green  fabric  first  and  soft. 

171 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

Ah,  well,  good-bye,  for  I  must  go ! 

Keep,  then,  your  flowers,  where'er  they  be. 
There  is  another  flower  I  know. 

That  makes  the  springtime  fair  for  mc. 

Let  May  with  all  her  blooms  arise. 
Let  May  with  all  her  blooms  depart ! 

That  flower  sufliceth  for  mine  eyes. 
And  hath  pure  honey  in  its  heart. 

Let  be  the  season  where  it  waits, 

And  blue  or  dull  be  heaven's  dome  — 

It  smiles  and  charms  and  captivates, — 
The  precious  violet  of  my  home  ! 


172 


xxxxxxxxxvxxvdbtfcdbdbxvxxx 

A    LAST    WISH 


A   LAST   WISH 

How  long  my  soul  has  loved  thee,  love ! 

It  is  full  many  a  year  agone. 
Thy  spring  —  what  charm  of  flowers  thereof. 

My  winter  —  what  wild  snows  thereon  ! 

White  lilacs  from  the  land  of  graves 
Blow  near  my  temples.     Soon  enow 

Thou  'It  mark  the  pallid  mass  that  waves 
Enshadowing  my  withered  brow. 

My  westering  sun  must  speedy  drop. 

And  disappear  behind  the  road. 
Already  on  the  dim  hill«-top, 

There  gleams  and  waits  my  last  abode. 

Then  from  thy  rosy  lips  let  fall 

Upon  my  lips  a  tardy  kiss. 
That  in  my  tomb,  when  comes  the  call. 

My  heart  may  rest,  remembering  this. 


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XX  V  X  X  X  X  tl^  tir  ^  tiPllrtIf  fir^dbtirxx  vx  SB  V  V 

ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

THE    DOVE 

0  TENDER,  beauteous  dove, 
Calling  such  plaintive  things  ! 

Wilt  serve  unto  my  love. 

And  be  my  love's  own  wings  ? 

O,  but  we  *re  like,  poor  heart ! 

Thy  dear  one,  too,  is  far. 
Remembering,  apart. 

Each  weeps  beneath  the  star. 

Let  not  thy  rosy  feet 

Stay  once  on  any  tower,  — 

1  am  so  fain,  my  sweet, — 

So  weary  turns  the  hour ! 

Forswear  the  palm's  repose 

That  spreadeth  over  all. 
And  gables  where  the  snows 

Of  other  pinions  fall. 

Now  fail  me  not,  nor  fear ! 

He  dwelleth  near  the  king. 
Give  him  this  letter,  dear. 

These  kisses  on  thy  wing. 


THE    DOVE 

Then  seek  again  my  breast, 
This  flaming,  throbbing  goal. 

Then  come,  my  dove,  and  rest  — 
But  bring  me  back  his  soul ! 


^7S 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 


A  PLEASANT    EVENING 

What  flurrying  of  rains  and  snows  ! 
Now  every  coachman,  blue  of  nose, 

In  fur  and  ire 
Sits  petrified.     Oh,  it  were  right 
To  spend  this  wild  December  night 

Before  one's  fire ! 

The  cosy  chimney-corner  chair 
Assumes  its  most  persuasive  air. 

I  seem  to  see 
Its  arms  held  out,  its  voice  to  hear. 
Beseeching  like  a  mistress  dear : 

"  Ah,  stay  with  me  !  " 

A  gauze  reveals  the  orbed  lamp. 
Like  a  fair  breast  beneath  a  guimpe. 

And  drowsily 
The  shimmer  of  its  light  ascends. 
Flushing  with  gold  and  crimson  blends 

The  ceiling  high. 

176 


dbdb^  ?b  X  db  db  :ir  db  db  db  vdbdirtfcdbdbxdbtl;  V  V  dbat 

A    PLEASANT    EVENING 

The  silence  frames  no  sound  of  things. 
Save  for  the  pendulum  that  swings 

Its  golden  disk. 
And  many  winds  that  roam  and  weep, 
Or  stealthy  to  the  hall-way  sweep, 

To  dance  and  frisk. 

It 's  ball-night  at  the  Embassy. 

My  coat's  limp  sleeves  are  signalling  me 

To  dress  anon. 
My  waistcoat  yawns.     My  shirt  obtuse 
Seems  raising  high  its  wristbands  loose. 

To  be  put  on. 

A  narrow  boot's  abundant  glaze 
Reflects  the  ruddy  firelight's  blaze. 

Have  I  forgot  ? 
A  glove's  flat  fingers  span  the  shelf. 
A  thin  cravat  protrudes  itself. 

And  begs  a  knot. 

Then  must  I  forth  ?     But  what  a  bore  — 
To  seek  the  over-crowded  door  ! 
To  fall  in  line 
i»  177 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

Of  coaches  bearing  coats  of  arms 
And  haughty  beauties  with  their  charcQS, 
Superb  and  fine ! 

To  stand  against  a  portal  wide 
And  see  the  surging  mass  inside 

Bear  form  on  form : 
Old  faces,  faces  fresh  and  young. 
Black  coats  low  bodices  among,  — 

A  motley  swarm ! 

And  pufFy  backs  that  hide  their  red 
With  laces  fine  of  costly  thre^ 

Aerial, 
Dandies,  diplomatists,  that  press. 
With  features  dull,  expressionless. 

At  fashion's  call. 

What !     Brave,  to  win  a  glance  of  hers, 
The  rows  of  lynx-eyed  dowagers  ! 

Try  undeterred 
To  speak  the  dear  name  of  my  dear. 
And  whisper  softly  in  her  ear 

Love's  little  word  ! 


A    PLEASANT    EVENING 

Nay,  but  I  '11  not '.     Her  eye  shall  heed 
A  letter  in  the  flowers  I  '11  speed. 

No  ball-room  now ! 
Let  Parma  violets  make  good 
Whatever  be  her  passing  mood. 

They  hold  my  vow. 

Ensconced  with  Heine  or  with  Taine, 
Or,  if  I  like,  the  Goncourts  twain. 

The  time  will  go.  ' 

I  '11  dream,  until  the  hour  shall  stir 
Reality,  and  wait  for  her. 

She  '11  come,  I  know. 


179 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

ART 

More  fair  the  work,  more  strong. 
Stamped  in  resistance  long,  — 
Enamel,  marble,  song. 

Poet,  no  shackles  bear. 
Yet  bid  thy  Muse  to  wear 
The  buskin  bound  with  care. 

A  fashion  loose  forsake,  — 
A  shoe  of  sloven  make. 
That  any  foot  may  take. 

Sculptor,  the  clay  withstand. 
That  yieldeth  to  the  hand. 
Though  listless  heart  command. 

Contend  till  thou  have  wrought. 
Till  the  hard  stone  have  caught 
The  beauty  of  thy  thought. 

With  Paros  match  thy  might. 

And  with  Carrara  bright. 

That  guard  the  line  of  light. 
_ 


ART 

Borrow  from  Syracuse 
The  bronze's  stubborn  use. 
Wherein  thy  form  to  choose. 

And  with  a  delicate  grace 
In  the  veined  onyx  trace 
Apollo's  perfect  face. 

Painter,  put  thou  aside 

The  transient.     Be  thy  pride 

The  colour  furnace-tried. 

Limn  thou,  fantastic,  free] 
Blue  sirens  of  the  sea. 
And  beasts  of  heraldiy. 

Before  a  nimbus  gold 

Transcendently  uphold 

The  Child,  the  Cross  foretold. 

Things  perish.     Gods  have  passed. 
But  song  sublimely  cast 
Shall  citadels  outlast. 


ENAMELS    AND    CAMEOS 

And  the  forgotten  seal 
Turned  by  the  plowman's  steel 
An  emperor  may  reveal. 

For  Art  alone  is  great : 
The  bust  survives  the  state, 
The  crown  the  potentate. 

Carve,  burnish,  build  thy  theme,  — > 
But  fix  thy  wavering  dream 
In  the  stern  rock  supreme. 


182 


Selected  Poems 


Selected  Poems 

xtlrtib^x  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 

THE    MIDDLE   AGES 

Whenever  I  follow  my  fancy  away, 

I  love  near  the  old  Gothic  castles  to  stray, 

Where  tower  the  roofs  azure-slated  and  high 

And  crowned  with  low  shrubs,  green  against  the  pale 

sky. 
I  love  the  dear  gables,  the  walls  turreted. 
The   window-panes  crossed  with   their    networks    of 

lead,  — 
The  legended  olden-time  valiant  and  saint 
Under  ogival  arch  wrought  with  fantasy  quaint. 
The  chapel  with  pinnacle  piercing  the  air, 
Whose  bell  rings  the  summons  to  worship  and  prayer. 
I  love  the  mossed  stone  where  the  rain-water  files. 
The  courts  where  the  grasses  peep  up  mid  the  tiles. 
The  keep  to  whose  summit  the  weather-vane  clings. 
Grazed  oft  by  the  stately  ciconia's  white  wings. 
The  trembling  drawbridges  of  gates  blazoned  bold 
With  fabulous  monsters  and  griffins  of  gold, 

^8^ 


SELECTED    POEMS 

The  stairways  colossal,  the  halls  dim  and  vast, 

Th<S  corridors  endless  that  gather  the  past, 

Where  faint  as  faint  voices  winds  whisper  and  weep. 

Where  I  wander  at  will,  sunk  in  reveries  deep. 

And  through  hours  of  enchantment  and  mystery  move, — 

In  the  bright  Middle  Ages  of  knighthood  and  love ! 


i86 


THE    CAPTIVE    BIRD 


THE   CAPTIVE    BIRD 

Long  time  a  prisoner,  thou  little  bird, 

These  many  days  naught  hast  thou  seen  or  heard. 

Save  inexhaustible,  eternal  rain,  — 

Gray  threads  against  a  grayer  sky's  domain,  — 

And  cloud-bathed  roofs.     Amid  the  roar  and  chase 

Of  Winter  dragging  Storm  about  through  space, 

I  know,  dear  heart,  thou  darest  not  to  sing. 

But  let  the  bright  sun  of  the  lovely  spring 

Touch  with  its  glance  the  blue-enamelled  dome. 

Over  the  silver  seas  bring  swallows  home. 

Cast  o'er  the  woods  its  trailing  garments  long, 

And,  little  bird,  thou  shalt  regain  thy  song. 

But  if,  to  memory  bound,  thou  still  regret. 

Being  unable  ever  to  forget 

The  hill,  the  thicket,  and  the  high  elm-top, 

The  country  golden  with  its  golden  crop. 

The  brimming  river-sweep  that  wideneth. 

Rippled  by  passing  zephyrs  sweet  of  breath, 

I  shall  delight  in  all  thy  joys  elate. 

For  linked  we  are  together  in  one  fate. 


SELECTED    POEMS 

My  soul,  like  thine,  is  caged  with  sufferings, 
Against  the  mortal  bars  it  beats  its  wings. 
And  fain  would  pierce  the  heaven's  azure  spell, 
Itself  an  angel,  track  Ithuriel, 
Inebriate  with  love  and  light  and  force. 
And  so  ascend  unto  the  Primal  Source. 
But  ah,  what  hand  shall  break  the  barriers  dun. 
Or  open  up  the  pathway  to  the  sun ! 


1 88 


ON  A  THOUGHT  OF  WORDSWORTH'S 


ON   A  THOUGHT   OF   WORDS- 
WORTH'S 

I  'vE  read  no  line  of  Wordsworth  whom  the  Steven 
Of  Byron  hath  assailed  with  bitterest  gall, 
Save  this  I  came  upon,  a  fragment  small 

In  a  romance  pseudonymously  given. 

From  Apuleius  filched,  "  Louisa,"  —  leaven 
Of  thought  impure  and  pictures  passional. 
How  well  the  flash  of  beauty  I  recall. 

The  "  Spires  whose  silent  finger  points  to  heaven  I  ** 

A  white  dove's  feather  down  the  darkness  strayed, 
A  lovely  flower  abloom  in  some  foul  nook. 
And  now  when  riming  halts  and  fancy  tires. 
And  Prospero  is  of  Ariel  unobeyed, 
I  over  all  the  margin  of  my  book 

Trace   group  on    group  of  heavenward-pointing 
spires. 


189 


SELECTED    POEMS 


CARYATIDES 

I  LOOKED  on  Michael  Angelo's  wrought  folk, 

Sistine's  great  frescoes,  the  Last  Judgment  saw, — 

Speechless,  the  while  the  wonder  in  me  woke. 
And  as  I  looked  my  spirit  bowed  with  awe. 

A  mass  of  shapes  of  every  attitude. 

Lion-like  faces,  necks  of  oxen  strength. 

Flesh  firm  as  marble,  muscles  taut  and  rude, 
With  force  to  break  a  cable's  iron  length ! 

No  stony  arch  upon  their  forms  was  set ; 

But  all  their  sinews  to  some  task  were  steeled. 
Meseemed  their  tensioned  arms  were  dripping  sweat. 

What,  then,  the  invisible  load  their  power  revealed  ? 

They  bore  a  weight  to  weary  Hercules, 

The  weight,  O  master,  of  thy  mighty  thought ! 

And  never  noble  Caryatides 

Their  shoulders  to  more  massive  burden  brought ! 


190 


THE    CHIMERA 


THE   CHIMERA 

A  YOUNG  chimera  at  my  goblet's  brim 
Gave  sweetest  kiss  amid  the  orgy's  spell. 

Emerald  her  eyes,  and  to  her  haunches  slim 
The  golden  torrent  of  her  tresses  fell. 

Her  shoulders  fluttering  pinions  did  bedeck. 

I  sprang  upon  her  back,  for  travel  fain. 
And  toward  me  bending  firm  her  lovely  neck, 

I  plunged  my  tightening  fingers  in  her  mane. 

She  struggled  madly  ;  but  I  clung,  austere. 
With  iron  knees  I  crushed  her  flanks  to  me. 

Then  softly  came  her  voice,  and  silver-clear : 
"  Whither,  then,  master,  shall  I  carry  thee  ?  * 

To /art best  edge  of  all  eternal  things, 

Beyond  the  sun,  beyond  the  bounds  of  space. 

But  weary  ere  the  end  shall  be  thy  wings,  — 
For  I  would  see  my  vision  face  to  fact ! 


191 


db  db  dir  db  7  ^  X  ^  dr  tir  db  ^  ob  :lr  tl;  db  db  tb  db  ?!;  dib  dir  9  dfb 

SELECTED    POEMS 


THE   ENCOUNTER 

Yester  morning  it  was  I  beheld  as  I  dreamed 
On  the  arch  of  a  bridge  an  encounter  of  horse. 

Cuirassed  and  caparisoned,  truly  it  seemed 

The  charging  of  splendid  and  passionate  force. 

Fierce  dragons  crouched  low  on  the  helmets  of  light, 
And  haggard-eyed,  brazen  Medusas  peered  out 

From   the   bucklers.      The    imbricate   brassarts   were 
bright 
With  knotted  wild  serpents  which  girt  them  about. 

Oft  from  the  gigantical  arch's  tall  brim 

A  knight,  losing  balance,  a  mad  frighted  steed. 

Reeled  down  to  the  depth  of  the  water  whose  grim. 
Cruel  jaws  waited  wide  in  their  crocodile  greed. 

It  was  you,  O  my  thoughts,  my  desires  !  battling  well  — 
Hard-pressing,  down-beating,  the  bridgeway  to  keep. 

And  your  mutilate  bodies  that  hurtled  and  fell, 
£ngulfed  in  the  wave,  are  forever  asleep. 


192 


XX  X  ^  X  X  X  X  db  wT^xxtpdbxdbxdbdptl?  dbtfew 

VERSAILLES 


VERSAI LLES 

To  be  a  city's  ghost,  Versailles,  thy  fate  ! 

Like  Venus  in  her  Adriatic,  how 

Thy  paralytic  form  doth  trembling  bow 
Under  a  carven  mantle's  sumptuous  weight  ! 
Ah,  what  impoverishment,  what  fallen  state,  — 

Olden,  yet  not  antique !     No  vine  hast  thou. 

About  thy  portico  upspringing  now 
To  veil  thy  nudeness  wan  and  uneiate. 

And  like  a  sorrowful,  forsaken  one, 
Thou  waitest  for  thy  royal  paramour. 

Dreaming  his  bright  return  the  livelong  hours. 
Beneath  his  tomb  the  Rival  of  the  Sun 

Now  slumbers.    Mute  thy  garden  streams  endure, 
And  but  a  statue  people  fills  thy  bowers. 


13  193 


SELECTED    POEMS 

BARCAROLLE 

Tell  me,  beautiful  maiden, 
Whither  wouldst  thou  away. 

To  what  shore  blossom-laden, 

Through  the  wind  and  the  spray  ? 

Oars  of  ivory  are  gleaming. 
Silken  banners  are  streaming. 

Golden-bright  is  the  prow. 
I  Ve  a  page  fair  and  minion, 
For  a  sail  a  saint's  pinion. 

And  for  ballast  a  bough. 

Tell  me,  beautiful  maiden. 
Whither  wouldst  thou  away. 

To  what  shore  blossom-laden. 

Through  the  wind  and  the  spray  ? 

Tell  me,  what  is  thy  pleasure, 
A  wide  ocean  to  measure  ? 

A  far  island  to  claim  ? 
Wreaths  of  snow-flowers  to  fashion. 
Or  to  linger  with  passion 

Near  the  flower  of  the  flame? 

194 


BARCAROLLE 

Tell  me,  beautiful  maiden, 
Whither  wouldst  thou  away, 

To  what  shore  blossom-laden, 

Through  the  wind  and  the  spray? 

"  To  the  land  ever  vernal, 
Where  love  liveth  eternal. 

Ah,  take  me  !  "  she  sighs. 
Sweet,  this  land  of  thy  seeing 
Hath  no  place  and  no  being, 

Under  any  love  skies  ! 


195 


SELECTED    POEMS 

THE    PORTAL 

O  ARTIST,  man,  whoever  thou  mayst  be, 
Marvel  not  through  so  sad  a  gate  to  see 
This  new-born  volume  fatally  unfold  ! 

Alas  !  all  monument  built  high,  complete. 
Before  it  raise  its  head  must  plunge  its  feet : 
The  skyward  tower  hath  felt  the  secret  mould. 

Below,  the  night-bird  and  the  tomb.     Above, 
Rose  of  the  sun  and  whiteness  of  the  dove, 
Carols  and  bells  on  every  arch  of  gold. 

Above,  the  minarets,  the  window's  charm. 
Where  birdlings  fret  their  wings  in  sunbeams  warm  — 
The  carved  escutcheons  borne  by  angels  tall, 

Acanthus  leaves  and  lotus  flowers  of  stone, 
Like  lilies  in  Elysian  gardens  blown. 
Below,  rude  shaft  and  vault  elliptical. 

Knights  rigid  on  their  biers  the  deathlong  days. 
With  folded  hands  and  helpless  upward  gaze, 
And  oozing  drips  from  cavern  roofs  that  fall. 

196 


THE    PORTAL 

My  book  is  builded  thus,  with  narrow  line 
Of  stratum  stone,  embossed  with  many  a  sign. 
And  carven  words  the  creeping  mosses  fill. 

God  grant  that,  passing  o'er  this  humble  place. 
The  pilgrim  foot  shall  never  quite  efface 
Its  poor  inscription  and  its  work's  unskill. 

My  ghostly  dead  !     That  ye  might  walk  the  shades. 
With  patience  have  I  wrought  your  colonnades. 
And  in  my  Campo-Santo  couched  you  still. 

There  watcheth  at  your  side  an  angel  true. 
To  make  a  curtain  of  his  wing  for  you. 
Pillow  of  marble,  cloth  of  leaden  fold. 

Yea,  Righteousness  and  Peace  have  kissed  in  stone, 
Mercy  and  Truth  are  met  together,  one 
In  flowing  raiment,  fair  and  aureoled. 

A  sculptured  greyhound  lieth  at  your  heels. 
A  beauteous  child  eternally  appeals 

From  out  the  shadow  of  the  tomb  enscroUed. 

197 


SELECTED    POEMS 

Upon  the  pillars  arabesques  arise 
Of  blooming  vines  that  flutter  circlewise. 
As  o'er  espalier  twines  the  dappled  green. 

And  the  dark  tomb  appears  a  gladsome  thing, 
With  all  this  bright,  perpetual  flowering, 
And  looks  on  sorrow  with  a  smile  serene. 

Death  plays  coquette.     Only  her  forehead  fair 
Hath  pallor  still  beneath  her  ebon  hair. 

She  seeks  to  charm,  and  hath  a  royal  mien. 

A  burst  of  colour  fires  the  blazons  clear ; 
The  alabaster  melts  to  whitest  tear ; 

Less  hard  uplooms  the  bronze-built  sepulture. 

The  consorts  lie  upon  their  beds  of  state ; 
Their  pillows  seem  to  soften  with  their  weight. 
Their  love  to  flower  within  the  marble  pure ; 

Till  with  her  garlands,  traceries,  and  festoons, 
Trefoils,  pendentives,  pillars  wrought  with  runes, 
Fantasia  at  her  will  may  laugh  and  lure. 

198 


THE   PORTAL 

The  tomb  becomes  a  thing  of  bright  parade, 
A  throne,  a  holy  altar,  an  estrade, 
For  it  is  wish  fulfilled  of  sight  at  last. 

But  if,  by  some  capricious  thought  impelled. 
Your  hand  should  peradventure  wonder-spelled 
Upraise  a  cover  rich  with  carven  cast. 

Under  the  heavy  vault  and  architrave. 
You  still  would  find  within  the  mouldering  grave, 
The  stiff  and  white  cadaver  sheeted  fast. 

With  never  glimmer  of  a  ray  without. 
Nor  inner  light  to  flood  the  bier  about. 
As  in  the  pictures  of  the  Holy  Tomb. 

Between  her  thin  arms,  like  a  tender  spouse 
Death  binds  her  chosen  to  her,  nor  shall  rouse 
Them  ever,  nor  let  go  her  grasp  of  doom. 

Scarce  at  the  Judgment  Hour  their  heads  shall  stir. 
When  at  the  trumpet  blast  the  stars  shall  err. 
And  a  strange  wind  blow  out  the  torch's  plume. 

199 


dbdbi:  4: :!:  db  db  :t  4:  :lr  4:4r:b:i:4:4:4:4:db4rdb :!:  dbdb 

SELECTED    POEMS 

An  angel  shall  discern  them  in  his  quest. 
Upon  the  ruins  of  the  world  at  rest, 

For  they  shall  sleep  and  sleep,  the  cycles  long. 

And  if  the  Christ  Himself  should  raise  His  hand. 
As  unto  Lazarus,  to  bid  them  stand, 

The  grave  would  loosen  not  its  fetter  strong. 

A  tomb  enwrought  with  sculpture  is  my  verse. 
That  hides  a  body  under  leaf  and  thyrse. 

And  breaks  its  weeping  heart  to  seem  a  song. 

My  poems  are  graves  of  mine  illusions  dead. 
Where  many  a  wild  and  luckless  form  I  bed 
When  a  ship  founders  in  the  tempest's  peal !  — 

Abortive  dream,  ambition's  eagerness. 
All  secret  ardours,  passions  issueless,  — 
All  bitter,  intimate  things  that  life  can  feel. 

Each  day  the  sea  devours  a  goodly  ship. 
Close  to  the  shore  there  hides  a  reef  to  rip 
Her  copper-sheathed  flanks  and  iron  keel. 

200 


THE    PORTAL 

How  many  have  I  launched,  with  what  fair  names ! 
With  silken  streamers  coloured  like  the  flames,  — 
Never  to  cleave  the  harbour  sun's  reflex ! 

Ah,  what  dear  passengers,  what  faces  sweet,  — 
Desires  with  heaving  breasts,  hopes,  visions  fleet,  — 
O  my  heart's  children  swarming  to  the  decks ! 

The  sea  hath  shrouded  them  with  glaucous  taint : 
The  red  of  rose,  the  alabaster  faint. 

The  star,  the  flower,  lie  floating  in  the  wrecks. 

Fearful  and  masterful,  the  hurtling  tide 
Dashes  from  drifting  spar  to  dolphin  side 

My  stark  and  drowned  dreams  that  sink  and  part. 

For  these  inglorious  travellers  distant-bound. 
Pale  seekers  of  Americas  unfound. 

Curve  into  hollow  caverns,  O  mine  Art ! 

Then  rise  in  towers  and  cupolas  of  fire. 
Press  upward  in  a  bold  cathedral  spire. 

And  fix  your  peak  in  heaven's  open  heart ! 

201 


SELECTED    POEMS 

Ye  little  birds  of  love  and  fantasy, 
Sonnets,  white  doves  of  heaven's  poetry. 
Light  softly  on  my  gables  argentine. 

And  swallows,  April  messengers  that  pass. 
Beat  not  your  tender  wings  against  the  glass,  — 
My  marbles  have  their  rifts  where  you  may  win. 

My  virgin  saint  shall  hide  you  in  her  robe. 
For  you  the  emperor  shall  let  fall  his  globe. 
The  lotus  heart  spread  wide  to  nest  you  in. 

LVe  reared  mine  azure  arch,  mine  organ  grand, 
I  *vc  carved  my  pillars,  placed  with  loving  hand 
In  each  recess  a  saint  of  martydom  ; 

I  *ve  begged  a  chalice  of  Elygius,  —  spice 
And  frankincense  for  holy  sacrifice 

Of  Kaspar,  and  have  drawn  the  sweet  therefrom. 

The  people  kneel  at  prayer.     The  radiant  priest 
In  orphreyed  chasuble  prepares  the  Feast. 

The  church  is  builded.  Lord !  Then  wilt  Thou  come  ? 


202 


THE    ESCORIAL 


THE   ESCORIAL 

Set  in  defiance  by  a  mountain  crest, 
There  rises  far  across  the  country's  breast 

The  great  Escorial  towered  and  tenebrous, 
Upon  its  shoulder  bearing  in  the  gloam. 
Like  a  huge  elephant,  a  massive  dome. 

The  granite  whim  of  Spain's  Tiberius. 

Never  did  Pharaoh  where  the  sad  cliffs  loom 
Make  for  his  mummy  any  darker  tomb ; 

Never  had  Sphinx  more  dulness  in  the  vast. 
Long  desert  where  no  thing  of  life  resorts. 
The  mould  o'ercovers  the  forsaken  courts. 

Priests,  friars,  and  flatterers  have  wrought  and  passed. 

And  all  were  dead,  if  from  the  hands  of  kings 
Ensculptured,  and  from  nooks  and  panellings 

There  fluttered  not  a  swarm  of  swallows  free, 
Playfully  winging  in  a  wild  carouse. 
To  flick  and  tease  and  waken  from  its  drowse 

The  giant  form  that  dreams  eternity. 


203 


SELECTED    POEMS 

A   KING'S   SOLITUDE 

Encloistered  I  live  in  a  tenebrous  place 

At  the  depth  of  my  soul,  with  no  love  and  no  friend, 
Alone  like  a  god,  with  no  equal  to  face. 

Save  mine  ancestors  sleeping  their  sleep  without  end. 
For  grandeur  is  solitude  !     All  the  long  day 

A  changeless,  an  indolent  idol  I  stand ; 
Superhuman  and  cold  in  my  castle  I  stay, 

The  purple  upon  me,  the  world  in  my  hand. 

Crown  of  thorns  like  to  Christ's  they  have  set  on  my 
hair. 

Under  weight  of  my  terrible  splendour  I  bow. 
And  the  sharp,  golden  rays  of  the  nimbus  I  wear ; 

Bright  drops  of  blood-royal  I  bear  on  my  brow. 
Heraldical  vultures  come  tearing  my  side. 

Prometheus  chained  to  his  mountain  and  cast 
To  the  tempest  of  heaven,  the  wrath  of  the  tide. 

Was  only  a  king  to  his  glory  made  fast. 

Throned  high  on  my  mystic  Olympus,  I  note 
But  the  voices  of  flatterers  flocking  in  line,  — 

Sole  cadences  counted  as  worthy  to  float 
Unto  summit  so  lofty,  so  distant,  as  mine. 

204 


A    KING'S    SOLITUDE 

If  wild  with  oppression  my  people  upswarm, 

And  rattle  their  irons  and  moan  in  their  fear, — 

"  Sleep,  Sire,"  they  tell  me,  "  it  is  but  the  storm. 
The  thunder  shall  slacken,  the  sky  shall  be  clear." 

I  've  power  for  all  things,  and  pleasure  for  none. 

Ah,  would  I  might  know  one  deep  wish  in  my  heart, 
Feel  life  in  its  warmth  flood  my  bosom  of  stone. 

Share  one  true  delight,  in  one  feast  have  a  part ! 
But  lonely  the  sun  in  its  circle  must  go. 

High  peaks  are  the  coldest,  and  never  a  spring, 
And  never  a  summer  can  soften  the  snow 

On  height  of  Sierra,  in  heart  of  a  king ! 


205 


SELECTED  POEMS 


THE  LAUREL  IN  THE  GENE- 
RALIFE  GARDEN 

In  the  Generalife  a  lovely  laurel, 

Gay  as  victory  and  glad  as  love, 
Bathes  its  boughs  in  fountain  mists  auroral, 
Hides  a  pearl  within  each  bloonni  of  coral. 

And  the  green  earth  smiles  to  heaven  above. 

Like  a  blushing  girl  elate  and  slender, 

Tint  of  flesh  it  taketh  with  the  spring ; 
Like  an  odalisk  in  her  nude  splendour, 
Waiting  by  the  water,  flushed  and  tender. 
Ready  for  her  fair  apparelling. 

Beauteous  laurel !     Many  a  mystic  hour 

Have  I  rested  me  beside  its  form. 
Sealed  my  lips  upon  its  precious  flower  — 
Sweet  red  mouth  !  —  and,  thrilling  to  its  power, 

Felt  it  give  me  back  my  kisses  warm. 


206 


FAREWELL    TO    POETRY 


FAREWELL   TO    POETRY 

Come,  fallen  angel,  fold  thy  wings  of  rose, 

DofF  thy  white  garment  and  thy  golden  ray  ! 

Piercing  the  ambient  ether  of  thy  way, 
A  star,  thou  couldst  but  hurtling  fall  to  prose. 
Upon  the  ground  thy  dove-like  feet  unclose  — 

Walk  —  for  thy  soaring-time  is  not  to-day. 

Within  thy  bosom  bid  thy  treasure  stay, 
And  let  thy  lyre  a  moment  now  repose. 

O  thou  poor  child  of  heaven,  thy  song  was  vain  ! 
Earth's  ears  were  deaf  to  thy  most  subtle  chord. 
Nor  could  it  guess  the  language  of  thy  spell. 
But  ere  thou  leave  me,  O  fair  angel  mine. 
Go  seek  me  out  my  pale  sweet  love  adored. 
And  on  her  lips  imprint  a  long  farewell ! 


207 


dfcdb  4r :!:  :8:  db  ^  db  db  db  !§?4?4r  i?:!lpdb  tlr^r^^tfc  ?8r  tl:!& 

SELECTED    POEMS 


THE   TULIP 

I  AM  the  tulip,  Holland's  choicest  flower. 

The  thrifty  Fleming  —  such  my  loveliness  — 
Pays  for  my  perfect  bulb  a  price  no  less 

Than  diamond.     Lordly  lineage  is  my  dower. 

Like  to  a  proud  Yolande  in  her  young  hour 
Of  pomp  and  kirtle  bright,  upon  my  dress 
Of  dewy  crimson  crossed  with  silver  fess, 

I  bear  the  painted  blazon  of  my  power. 

The  gardener  divine  with  fingers  deft 
Spun  golden  beams  of  iridescent  noon. 
And  liquid  depths  of  purple  fashioned  up, 
To  make  for  me  a  robe  of  royal  weft. 

Peerless  I  stand  —  yet  grieve  that  Nature  boon 
Poured  never  perfume  in  my  shining  cup  I 


208 


TOUCH    NOT    THE    MARBLE 


TOUCH    NOT   THE   MARBLE 

Yea,  one  may  love  a  statue,  so  it  be 

Some  subtle  dream  of  Phidias.     Tall  and  still. 
From  her  bright  self  to  man  there  may  distil 

An  intimacy  —  for  he  comes,  and  she, 

TTie  goddess  waits  his  coming  secretly. 
And  he  forgetteth  that  her  form  is  chill. 
That  her  white  glances  fascinate  and  kill. 

Bound  fast  before  her  fair  divinity. 

She  seems  to  smile,  and  he,  grown  bolder,  cries : 
"  Immortal  one,  a  woman,  then,  art  thou  ?  " 
A  fiery  touch  is  on  the  marble  wan ; 
Straightway  it  trembles  ;  thunder  shakes  the  skies,  — 
Well  knoweth  all-indulgent  Venus  how 

A  god's  desire  may  flame  the  heart  of  man ! 


»4  209 


J  L  B  E   R    T  U  S 

or  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

A  ^theological  Legend 

THE     COMEDT 
OF      DEATH 

translated  into  English  Prose 
By  F.  C.  DE  SUMICHRAST 


Albertus^  or  The  Soul  and  Sin 

A    'theological    Legend 


J  L  B  E  R    T  U  S 

or  rHE  SOUL    AND  SIN 

A   T heological  Legend 
POEM 

You  shall  sec  anon  ;  't  is  a  knavish  piece  of  work. 

Hamlet,  iii,  2. 

I 

By  the  side  of  a  deep  canal  whose  greenish,  silent 
tide  with  water-lilies  and  boats  is  covered,  rises,  with 
pointed  gables,  granaries  vast,  slate-roofed  towers  on 
which  storks  their  nests  do  build,  and  noisy  pot-houses 
with  topers  filled,  an  old  Flemish  town  such  as  Teniers 
loves  to  paint.  Surely  the  place  you  know  ?  —  Look, 
there  stands  the  willow,  its  dull  green  leaves  on  its 
shoulders  spreading,  as  spreads  the  hair  of  a  girl  as 
she  bathes ;  there  the  church  and  its  steeple  too ;  the 
pond,  where  bravely  duck  armadas  do  disport.  In 
truth,  all  the  picture  lacks  is  a  frame  and  nail  where- 
from  to  hang  it  on  the  wall. 

215 


ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

II 

Comfort  and  far  niente !  A  world  of  poetic  calm 
and  satisfaction  that  wellnigh  might  the  fancy  excite 
thither  to  go  and  Flemish  turn ;  to  own  a  well- 
coloured  pipe,  and  a  stoup  with  painted  flowers  adorned, 
a  tankard  huge  enough  four  pints  to  hold,  such  as 
Drawer's  topers  grasp.  And  at  night,  close  by  the 
stove  with  hissing,  crackling  logs,  amid  a  cloud  of  to- 
bacco smoke,  hands  on  stomach  folded,  vague  thoughts 
idly  to  pursue,  to  doze  or  digest,  to  sing  some  old 
refrain,  to  drink  a  health,  within  one  of  those  warm 
interiors  which  Ostade  knows  so  well  how  to  light  up 
with  soft  luminousness. 

Ill 

So  that  even  you,  poet  and  painter,  would  come 
to  forget  that  fairy  land  of  which  Goethe's  Mignon, 
of  cold  abhorrent,  remembering,  oft  to  her  Wilhelm 
speaks,  —  the  land  of  sunshine  where  the  citron  ripens, 
where  the  jessamine  ever  freshly  blows ;  to  make  you 
forget  Naples  for  Amsterdam's  sake,  Claude  Lorrain 
for  Berghem ;  to  make  you  willing  to  exchange,  for 
these    mossy-green  walls    between  which    Rembrandt, 

216 


SELECTED    POEMS 

within  the  dun  darkness,  brings  gleaming  forth  Faust 
in  dress  of  olden  days,  the  fair  marble  palaces  with 
their  white  colonnades,  the  dark-hued  women,  the 
langourous  serenades,  and  all  the  azure  Venetian  air ! 

IV 

Of  yore  within  this  town,  so  tradition  tells,  there 
dwelt  a  woman  wicked,  Veronica  by  name.  Feared 
she  was  by  one  and  all,  and  it  was  whispered  low  that 
round  her  home  had  murmurs  strange  been  heard  arise, 
and  that  angels  of  evil  there  in  darksome  night  their 
pleasure  took.  —  The  sounds  were  nameless  sounds, 
till  then  unheard  by  human  ears,  like  unto  the  voice 
of  dead  within  the  tomb,  by  magic  spell  from  sleep 
awaked  ;  faint  plaints  from  underground  arising ;  distant 
rumours,  songs,  cries,  tears,  the  clank  of  chains,  and 
terrifying  howls. 


One  stormy  day,  indeed,  had  dame  Gertrude  with 
her  own  eyes  seen  emerge  from  out  a  cloud  a  black 
fiend  on  lightning-bolt  astride,  who  shot  across  the 
blood-red  sky,  and  within  the  chimney,  whence  sudden 
rose  vapours  bluish,  dash  down  head  first  with  hideous 

217 


ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

yell.  The  barn  of  Justus  van  Eyck,  the  farmer,  broke 
into  flames,  that  none  might  quench,  and  in  its  fall, 
an  avalanche  of  fire,  crushed  to  death  four  of  the 
workers.  And  people  worthy  of  belief  do  declare  that 
Veronica  stood  there,  laughing  sardonic  laughter  and 
muttering  sarcastic  words. 

VI 

The  wife  of  Cornelius,  the  brewer,  before  her  time 
did  bring  into  the  world  a  child  all  covered  o'er  with 
loathsome  hair,  and  of  ugliness  such  that  gladly  would 
the  father  have  seen  it  dead.  'T  was  said  that  on  the 
woman  brought  to  bed,  and  since  that  day  sick  con- 
tinuously and  in  her  bed  lying,  Veronica,  by  some 
foul,  mysterious  means,  had  cast  an  evil  spell.  —  And 
truth  to  tell,  her  grim  and  treacherous  mien  more  than 
justified  these  reports.  Her  eyes  were  green,  her 
mouth  a  cave,  black  her  teeth,  wrinkled  her  brow,  her 
fingers  knotty,  bowed  her  back,  her  foot  misshapen 
and  her  legs  yet  worse,  harsh  her  voice,  and  her  soul 
more  repulsive  even  than  her  frame.  The  Devil 
himself  more  hideous  could  not  be. 


218 


SELECTED    POEMS 

VII 

This  ancient  witch  did  a  hut  inhabit  that  crouched 
at  the  foot  of  a  barren  mound,  exposed,  in  summer's 
heat  as  in  winter's  cold,  to  the  four  winds  of  heaven. 
The  long-prickled  thistle,  the  nettle  and  ivy  spread 
around  in  mass  irregular ;  upon  it  the  grass  luxuriant 
its  swaying  plumes  did  hang,  while  through  cracks 
in  roof  and  rifts  in  ceiling  the  rain,  by  obstacles  un- 
hindered, with  its  great  drops  the  mouldy,  rotten  floors 
did  flood.  Within  the  window  frame  scarce  one  pane 
out  of  three  might  one  note  that  unbroke  was,  and 
never  could  the  door  fest  be  closed. 

VIII 

^my  slugs  silver-traced  the  walls,  the  stones  of 
which  were  cracked ;  the  plaster  kept  breaking  away. 
Lizards  green  and  gray  within  the  holes  did  lodge,  and 
when  night  fell  a  high,  piercing  note  was  heard,  that 
of  the  leaping  frog,  while  the  dun-eyed  toads  did 
hoarsely  groan.  —  Thus  it  was  that,  on  winter  nights, 
once  the  dark  had  fallen,  and  especially  when  a  fleecy 
cloud  shrouded  the  horn  of  the  crescent  moon  in  mass 
of  vapour,  no  one  —  not  even  Eisenbach  the  preacher 

219 


ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

himself —  dared   to  pass  in  front  of  the  sinister  den 
without  shudder  and  pallor  of  fear. 

IX 

The  interior  worthy  was  of  the  exterior  alluring :  it 
was  a  pandemonium,  wherein  on  one  and  the  same 
row  were  jumbled  together  innumerable  fantastic 
articles.  There  were  lean  bats  with  wings  diaphanous, 
clinging  to  the  walls  with  their  four  slight  claws ; 
broken-necked  bottles,  cracked  earthen  dishes,  croco- 
diles, serpents  stuffed,  rare  plants,  alembics,  twisted 
into  shapes  of  the  strangest,  old  manuscripts  open  lying 
upon  limping  chairs,  ill-preserved  foeti  offending  the 
nose  from  a  mile  away  -,  their  yellow,  blue  faces 
plastered  against  the  glass  of  the  jar. 


It  was  a  downright  witches'  sabbath  of  colours  and 
forms,  amid  which  the  paunchy  jar,  with  its  huge 
sides,  loomed  like  a  river-horse,  and  the  long-necked 
vial  seemed  to  be  an  Egyptian  ibis  perched  upon  the 
edge  of  the  sarcophagus  of  some  Pharaoh  or  long-dead 
Magi  king.  It  was  a  vision  Hke  unto  a  madman's 
dreams,  or  wrought  in  brain  by  opium,  in  which  re- 

220 


SELECTED    POEMS 

ceivers,  matrasses,  syphons,  and  pumps,  long-drawn 
like  a  phallus  or  twisted  like  trumps,  assumed  the 
appearance  of  elephant  and  rhinoceros;  in  which  the 
monsters  traced  around  the  zodiac,  bearing  on  their 
brows  their  name  in  Syrian,  together  boleros  danced. 

XI 

A  dusty  heaping  up  of  apparatus  strange,  of  which 
the  eye  the  baffling  contours  could  trace,  and  of  old 
volumes,  with  not  one  title  in  the  Christian  tongues. 
A  medley,  a  chaos  in  which  everything  grimaced,  was 
deformed,  twisted,  changed  its  shape ;  a  mirror  reversed, 
in  which  nought  could  be  known,  for  all  was  trans- 
posed —  red  turned  dun,  white  black  became,  and 
black  to  blue  did  turn.  Never  under  an  alcove  did 
Smarra  more  hideous  phantoms  crowd:  it  was  the 
realising  of  fantastic  tales,  the  living  embodiment  of 
visions  queer,  Hoffmann  at  once  and  Rabelais. 

XII 

To  make  the  picture  complete,  from  the  edge  of 
shelves  there  grinned  whitened  skulls,  with  polished 
crowns,  long  teeth,  triangular  noses,  and  empty  sockets 
which  seemed  to  glare  with  hungry  look.     A  skeleton 

221 


ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

upright,  its  arms  hanging  limp,  cast,  as  willed  the 
light  that  streamed  through  the  network  of  its  ribs  — 
scarce  deserted  by  the  inhabitants  of  the  grave  —  its 
shadow  in  straight  lines  upon  the  wall.  Had  Satan's 
self  entered  there,  heretic  though  he  be,  such  ice-cold 
terror  upon  him  would  have  fallen  that,  like  a  good 
Catholic,  he  'd  have  crossed  himself. 

XIII 

Yet  to  an  artist  a  hell  like  this  is  a  paradise,  *Twas 
thence  Teniers  his  "  Alchemist "  drew,  and  Callot 
many  a  motive  for  his  "  Temptation."  'T  was  thence 
Goethe  got  all  that  scene  in  which  Mephistopheles 
leads  Faust,  eager  his  youth  to  renew,  to  the  witch's 
den  the  potion  to  swallow.  The  illustrious  baronet, 
Sir  Walter  Scott  himself  (Jedediah  Cleishbotham),  found 
in  it  more  than  one  theme.  The  character  he  re- 
peats constantly,  Meg,  in  "Guy  Mannering,"  is  as 
like  as  two  peas  to  our  Veronica.  All  he  did  was  to 
take  her  and  to  conceal  her  dress. 

XIV 

The  chequered  tartan  plaid  and  the  bonnet  hide  the 
skirt  and  the  coif.     Scotland  has  taken  the  place  of 

222 


SELECTED    POEMS 

Flanders  —  that  is  all.  Then  he  has  stolen  from  me, 
the  infamous  plagiarist,  this  description  (compare  "The 
Antiquary  "),  the  black  cat  —  Marius  on  the  ruins  stand- 
ing ! —  and  many  another  touch.  And  I  would  almost 
swear  that  he  who  to  the  sublime  the  grotesque  did 
wed,  who  created  Bug,  Han,  Cromwell,  Notre-Dame, 
Hernani,  within  this  very  hovel  those  masks  did  mould 
that,  when  one  looks  at  their  features  fantastic,  seem 
to  have  been  done  by  Benvenuto  Cellini. 

XV 

The  cat,  of  which  I  have  spoken  in  the  preceding 
stanza,  was  the  great  grandsire  of  Murr,  the  philoso- 
pher, whose  story,  intertwined  with  that  of  Kreissler, 
more  than  once  has  made  me  forget  that  the  logs  were 
putting  on,  as  the  fire  died  down,  their  robe  of  plush, 
that  midnight  was  striking,  and  that  it  was  winter  time. 
My  poor  Childebrand,  truest  of  friends,  of  cats  the 
most  tender-hearted,  and  endowed  with  the  whitest 
soul  that  could  be  found  under  fur  so  black,  that  friend 
of  mine  whose  death  I  so  sorely  mourned  that  since 
that  day  I  have  life  hated,  one  of  his  heirs  also  was. 


223 


ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

XVI 

For  the  matter  of  that,  this  worthy  cat  was  the  one 
and  only  creature  allowed  within  the  den ;  the  sole  and 
only  one  for  whom  Veronica  felt  any  love.  And  it 
may  be  that  he  alone  in  all  the  world  her  did  love  j  for, 
indeed,  old,  ugly,  and  poor  as  she  was,  who  else  would 
have  done  so  ?  Those  we  hate  are  wicked  —  that  is 
excuse  enough  for  us.  —  It  is  night  i  all  is  silence  ;  a 
red  light  flickers  and  gleams  on  the  hovel's  pane. 
The  cat,  curled  up  on  the  broken-legged  chair,  watches 
with  serious,  intelligent  gaze,  the  old  woman  who 
moves  about  and  hastes  to  prepare  some  shameful 
mystery. 

XVII 

Or  else,  on  his  whiskers  stiff  his  paw  rubbing, 
smooths  his  coat,  lustrous  as  ermine's,  with  the  help 
of  his  rough,  harsh  tongue,  and  feeling  chilly,  between 
the  andirons,  close  to  the  logs,  his  head  under  his  tail, 
artistically  himself  curls  up.  —  Meanwhile  the  wind 
without  still  moans,  and  with  the  strident  sounds  of 
the  storm  the  orfrey  mingles  its  screams.  The  roof 
creaks  and  groans  ;  the  logs  crackle  sharp  ;  the  flames 
swirl  on  high,  and  within  the  great  caldron,  under  a 

224 


SELECTED    POEMS 

foam  of  flakes,  dark,  stinking  water  bubbles  and  boils, 

its    sound    accompanying   the    kettle  and  the  feline's 

purr. 

XVIII 

Midnight  is  the  hour  appointed  for  the  evil  deed. 
Midnight  now  sounds.  —  Forthwith  the  infamous  Ver- 
onica a  circle  on  the  floor  draws  with  her  wand,  and  in 
the  centre  stands.  Outside  the  magic  ring,  phantoms 
innumerable,  luminous  dots  against  the  hangings  dark, 
tremble,  like  motes  a  sunbeam  in  the  shadow  reveals. 
—  Meanwhile  the  hag  her  incantation  mutters,  utters 
fierce  cries,  speaks  words  the  sound  of  which  pains 
the  ear  as  sledge-hammers  wielded  in  a  forge,  and 
which  scrape  the  throat  like  potions  evil. 

XIX 

But  this  is  not  enough.  To  fulfil  the  mystery,  she 
one  by  one  her  garments  to  the  ground  doth  cast,  and 
naked  stands.  A  terrifying  sight !  A  whitened  skeleton 
swaying  in  the  wind,  and  which  has  grinned  for  six 
months  from  the  gibbet  at  the  crows,  is  a  cheerful 
spectacle  by  comparison  with  this  carcass  with  its 
flaccid  breasts,  its  yellow,  sunken  belly,  wrinkled  with 
lai^e  folds,  its  arms  red  as  lobsters.     "  Horror !  hor- 

15  225 


XXX  db  X  db  db  X  X  tb  xxdbdbdfdbdbxdb  V  V  vsb  SIT 

ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

ror !  horror  !  "  as  Shakespeare  would  say  ;  a  nameless 
thing,  impossible  to  describe  j  the  very  ideal  of  nightmare 
grim. 

XX 

Within  her  palm  the  water  dark  she  takes  and  thrice 
her  bosom  with  it  she  doth  anoint.  Now,  no  human 
tongue  can  truly  tell  what  then  befell  !  —  The  flaccid 
breasts,  that  hung  as  hangs  the  skirt  of  well-worn  coat, 
miraculously  swell  and  round  become  ;  the  cloud  of  tan 
is  cleared  away,  and  they  might  be  an  opal  globe  parted 
in  twain,  so  fair  the  form  and  fair  the  tint.  The  blood 
courses  in  them  in  azure  veins,  life  gleams  in  them  so 
that  even  a  maid  of  fifteen  could  scarce  more  blooming 
be. 

XXI 

Her  eyes  she  rubs,  her  whole  face  next.  Roses 
bloom  once  more ;  smallest  wrinkles  go,  as  vanish 
ripples  when  the  breeze  doth  fail ;  her  mouth  with 
enamels  gleams,  and  brilliant  light,  a  fiery  diamond, 
within  her  eyes  doth  flash ;  her  hair  is  jet,  her  frame 
no  longer  bowed  —  she  is  beauteous  now  ;  so  fair  that 
she  would  envy  excite.  Many  a  gallant  swain  his  life 
would  peril  merely  to  touch  her  fingers'  tips,  and  no 

226 


SELECTED    POEMS 

one  would  dream,  on  seeing  the  lovely  head,  the  body 
fair,  the  figure  sweet,  to  what  she  owes  them. 

XXII 

A  very  pearl  of  love  !  Great  eyes,  almond-shaped, 
at  times  most  German  in  their  sweetness  tender,  at 
times  flaming  with  Spanish  heat;  two  glorious  mirrors 
of  jet  that  make  one  wish  to  gaze  within  them  one's 
whole  life  long.  Her  voice's  tone  more  sweet  than 
nightingale's  lay ;  Sontag  and  Malibran,  whose  every 
note  doth  thrill  and  in  the  heart  awake  a  secret  note ; 
Puck's  roguishness,  Ariel's  grace,  a  winsome  mouth 
whereon  the  smile  mingles  with  Esmeralda's  pout  and 
mingling  plays  —  a  miracle,  a  dream  of  Heaven  ! 

XXIII 

Reader,  hyperbole  apart,  she  was  truly  beautiful  — 
most  beautiful !  That  is,  she  seemed  so,  and  that  the 
same  thing  is.  Enough  that  the  eye  be  deceived ;  it 
ever  is  by  love ;  happiness  due  to  fancy  is  the  same 
as  if  mathematics  proved  it  true.  For  what  is  happi- 
ness, if  not  to  believe  in  and  caress  one's  dream,  with 
prayer  to  God  that  here  below  it  may  never  wane  ? 
For  faith  alone  heaven  to  us  shows  in  our  terrestrial 

227 


ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

exile,  and  this  desert  of  the  world,  in  which  felicity  on 
nothingness  is  based  as  on  reality  is  woe. 

XXIV 

The  lambent  flame  upsprings  once  more.  Forth 
from  the  circle  Veronica  steps,  a  tunic  white  slips  on, 
and  over  that  a  purple  robe.  Upon  her  head,  in  place 
of  the  black  cap  she  wore  erstwhile,  an  ermine  hood 
she  sets,  and  a  mirror  in  her  hand  taking,  looks  long 
within  and  with  pleasure  smiles  at  the  sight  she 
sees.  The  moon  just  then,  through  a  break  in  the 
clouds,  upon  her  cast  her  fond,  chaste  light.  The 
door  open  stood,  so  that  one  might  from  without  look 
straight  within ;  and,  haply,  had  any  at  this  time 
strayed  along  the  road,  he  would  have  made  sure  he 
dreamed  awake. 

XXV 

Veronica,  with  the  tip  of  her  wand,  touches  the  cat, 
which  gazes  upon  her  with  bright,  treacherous  glance, 
and  rolls  at  her  feet,  its  back  curling.  Thrice  she 
spins  around,  makes  mystic  signs,  and  whispers  low, 
cabalistic  words.  Then  is  seen  a  sight  that  makes  the 
blood  run  cold.     In  place  of  the  cat,  appears  a  hand- 

228 


*dfc  ir * ir  db  ir  *  *  ir  irtttfcdbAdbdbtfc***  * tirdk 

SELECTED    POEMS 

some  youth,  —  aquiline  nose,  forehead  high,  black  mous- 
tache, —  a  youth  such  as  maidens  see  in  their  dreams 
of  love.  His  mantle  is  red  and  his  doublet  of  silk, 
his  Toledo  blade  has  a  sparkling  hilt, —  he  undoubtedly 
is  a  sprightly  lad. 

XXVI 

"  'T  is  well,"  said  Veronica,  holding  out  her  white 
hand  to  the  young  cavalier,  who,  hand  on  hip,  in 
silence  waited.  "  Escort  me,  Don  Juan."  —  Juan 
bowed.  — "  Whither  may  I  take  you,  madame  ?  " 
—  The  lady  bowed  and  whispered  in  his  ear  a  syllable 
or  two.  Don  Juan  understood.  —  "  Here,  Leporello," 
said  he  in  a  loud,  ringing  voice.  "  Her  ladyship  goes 
forth.  Take  a  torch  and  light  her  on  her  way."  — 
Instantly,  torch  in  hand,  Leporello  appears.  —  "  Bring 
up  the  carriage."  —  They  enter  it,  the  whip  cracks,  the 
coachman  swears,  and  they  're  off. 

XXVII 
OfF,  but  which  way  ?  That  is  a  profound  mystery. 
It  was  pitch-dark,  and  besides,  in  so  dark  a  place  who 
the  devil  could  have  seen  them  ?  No  one,  for  all  were 
asleep.  The  moon  had  bound  a  cloud  across  its  eyes 
of  blue    lest   they    indiscreet    should    prove.     So    the 

229 


ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

carriage  reached  the  end  of  its  way  without  any  one 
suspecting  whom  it  contained.  Not  a  single  splash  of 
mud  defaced  the  panels  broad  and  blazoned  ;  the  wheels, 
as  if  the  stones  had  been  covered  with  velvet  and  with 
silk,  rolled  on,  silent,  noiseless,  through  the  fields  straight 
on,  and  so  lightly  that  they  made  no  mark,  that  they 
nowhere  the  wheat  bowed  down. 

XXVIII 

For  the  nonce,  the  scene  to  Leyden  is  shifted. 
That  petticoated  monkey,  that  hag,  hideous  enough  to 
make  Beelzebub  himself  turn  on  his  heel,  now  young 
and  beautiful,  incarnate  poetry,  treasure  of  graces, 
makes  the  fashionable  beauties  and  middle-class  Venuses 
of  the  place  with  jealousy  wither,  under  their  ample 
skirts,  overladen  with  galloons,  and  their  lofty  caps,  full 
six  feet  high.  Empty  are  the  rooms  of  Lady  Barbara 
Von  AltenhorfF;  empty  are  the  halls  of  the  young 
Countess  Cecilia  Wilmot ;  there  is  no  sign  of  a  crush 
at  the  Landgravine  of  Gotha's. 

XXIX 

Young  and  old,  lawyers  in  dusty  wigs,  dandies  shed- 
ding around  them  the  scent  of  amber,  officers  in  gay 

230 


SELECTED    POEMS 

uniforms  dragging  their  swords  across  the  sounding 
floors,  painters  and  musicians,  all  crowd  to  the  stranger's 
rooms ;  and,  although  it  was  far  from  proper,  as  vinegary 
ancient  prudes  remark,  thus  to  keep  all  men  to  one's 
self,  especially  when  one  had  no  other  attraction  than 
a  piquant  face  and  the  beauty  of  youth,  none  the  less 
men  kept  running  there.  The  sole  topic  of  talk  in 
town  was  Veronica.  Never  was  any  name  more  fre- 
quently  spoken. 

XXX 

When  she  appeared  it  was  impossible  to  hear  one's  self 
for  the  enthusiasm,  the  delirium,  the  excitement,  ex- 
pressing itself  in  peals  of  applause  and  bravos  and  noise. 
Never  did  dilettanti  from  their  theatre-boxes  rain  down 
more  abundant  praise,  flowers,  and  verse  on  a  prima 
donna  than  at  every  step  fair  Veronica  at  the  dance,  at 
the  play,  everywhere,  received  from  her  adoring  admirers. 
The  poets  wrote  sonnets  to  her  eyes  and  called  her 
"  Sun  "  or  "  Moon  "  in  acrostics  ;  painters  painted  her 
face,  and  the  rich  ruined  themselves  in  their  rivalry. 

XXXI 

She  gave  the  tone,  the  keynote  of  fashion.  She  was 
adored  like  an  idol.     In  naught  would  any  have  dared 

231 


ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

her  to  contradict.  The  shape  of  bonnets  and  the  form 
of  sleeves ;  which  was  better,  flowers  or  feathers  white  ; 
which  the  right  jewels,  which  the  most  becoming, 
especially  the  important  matter  whether  one  should 
rouge  or  not,  —  she  it  was  who  decided  all.  The  lady 
of  the  Margrave  Tielemann  Van  Horn  and  the  old 
Duke's  daughter  in  vain  protested  by  their  heretical 
dress ;  scarce  was  there  to  be  seen  within  their  old- 
fashioned  rooms  a  broken-down  admirer  ancient. 

XXXII 

Young  would  have  become  cheerful.  Heraclites  the 
weeper,  wiping  his  eyes,  would  have  laughed  louder 
than  Democritus  at  the  comical  sight  of  the  efforts 
made  by  the  ladies  of  the  place,  short  and  stout  Irises, 
to  dress  as  she  did  and  to  copy  her  grace.  Maidens, 
the  slimmest  of  whom  weighed  three  or  four  hundred, — 
rubicund  faces,  with  flowers,  lots  of  ribbons  and  laces, 
masses  of  flesh  (after  Rubens'  manner),  —  wearing  in- 
stead of  rich  velvet  and  great  pattern  brocades,  thin 
tissues,  gauze,  fleece-like  stuff.  Ye  gods,  what  a 
masquerade ! 


232 


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XXXIII 

But  as  for  our  heroine,  she  was  invariably  charming, 
whether  adorned  or  not ;  whether  veiled  or  cloaked ; 
whether  cape  wearing  or  a  hood.  In  short,  in  every 
way  everything  she  had  seemed  endowed  with  life. 
The  folds  appeared  to  understand  when  they  ought 
to  flutter  and  when  they  ought  to  hang;  the  in- 
telligent silk  hushed  its  chatter  or  kept  it  up  to 
warble  her  praise ;  the  breeze  blew  just  on  purpose 
to  make  her  fringes  shimmer,  and  her  feathers  flut- 
tered like  birds  about  to  take  to  flight,  while  an  in- 
visible  hand   her   laces    separated    and    played  within 

their  maze. 

XXXIV 

Her  hair  was  always  well  dressed.  Whatever  she 
wore,  —  a  mere  trifle,  the  first  thing  she  took,  every 
bit  of  ribbon,  every  flower,  —  fairylike  seemed  to 
be  J  whatever  touched  her  at  once  precious  became; 
everything  was  in  perfect  taste  and  indicated  quality. 
Whatever  her  dress,  grand,  rich,  or  quaint,  she  alone 
was  noticed.  Her  eyes  made  the  flash  of  diamond's  self 
grow  pale;  her  teeth  were  fairer  than  pearls,  and 
satin  lost  its  gloss  when  near  her  skin.     With  her  port 

233 


ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

so  free,  her  teasing  wit,  her  charm  both  coy  and  arch, 
she  was  in  turns  Camargo,  Manon  Lescaut,  Philine, 
—  in  short,  a  ravishing  wretch  ! 

XXXV 

Hans,  Aulic  counsellor,  and  Master  Philip  for  her 
sake  their  gin,  their  pipe  renounced.  It  was  positively 
jolly  to  see  these  worthy  Flemings,  so  perfect  of  their 
kind,  stout,  squat,  their  faces  beaming,  actually  forget- 
ful of  their  tulips,  blooming  at  last,  transform  them- 
selves into  dandies  and  posture  round  the  diva.  Wives 
and  mothers  certes  did  not  spare  her  bitter  remarks, 
but  serenely  she  kept  on  her  way,  none  of  her  adorers 
losing,  and,  caring  little  for  the  empty  talk,  welcomed 
every  one,  and  accepted  the  homage  and  the  cash  of 
each. 

XXXVI 

Two  months  have  passed.  On  this  day,  like  a 
queen,  Veronica  a  headache  boasts  or  pretends  to 
have.  Her  door  is  closed.  Her  courtiers  in  numbers 
great  are  vainly  waiting.  Within  a  rich  boudoir  in 
which  amber  pastiles  sweet  perfume  shed,  and  where 
every  footfall  upon  the  handsome  Turkish  rugs  is 
noiseless  as  on  sward,  in  which  a  silver  lamp  and  the 

234 


SELECTED    POEMS 

hissing  logs  alone  break  silence  with  their  shrill  sound, 
our  beauty  in  her  morning  wrapper,  pale  and  white  as 
pearl,  bends  over  a  table,  a  paper  crushing  within  her 
hand. 

XXXVIl 

She  sulks.  Ye  gods,  how  bewitching  is  a  woman 
when  she  sulks  !  Her  hand  under  her  chin,  her  elbow 
softly  pressing  one  knee  like  the  jasper  rich,  her  body 
willowy  bending,  like  a  buttercup  with  a  drop  of  dew 
o'er  full.  Her  hair  undone,  that  in  a  moment  shows,  or 
hides,  perchance,  as  the  zephyr  through  it  blows,  or  the 
restless  fingers  through  it  move,  the  cheek,  pearl-pink, 
transparent,  the  brow  azure-veined ;  just  as  in  great 
gardens  the  limbs  of  trees  with  their  foliage  veil  or 
uncover  the  statues  fair  that  stand  under  their  summer 
shade. 

xxxvni 

Whence,  then,  her  grief?  When  she  rose  this  morn 
and  in  her  glass  did  look  did  she  herself  discover  older 
or  less  fair  to  be  ?  Did  she  find  within  her  jet  black 
hair  one  single  pale  silvery  thread,  or  on  her  dazzling 
teeth  a  single  stain  ?  '  Did  the  two  ends  of  the  ribbon, 
when  her  hands  drew  them,  prove  too  short  for  the 


ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

stouter  frame  ?  Has  a  dress  she  expected  and  on 
which  she  reckoned  to  take  away  the  Count  from 
Lady  Wilmot, —  has  that  dress  been  torn  or  crushed 
on  its  way  ?  Is  it  her  dog  that  has  sickened  ?  Or, 
after  three  nights  at  the  dance,  has  fever  paled  the  pure 
carmine  of  her  lovely  lips  ? 

XXXIX 

Is  her  glance  less  bright,  her  neck  less  fair,  the  form 
of  her  Greek  face  less  pure  ?  Has  some  rival,  in 
greater  youth  or  diamonds  richer  rejoicing,  turned 
more  heads  at  the  last  assembly  ?  Nay,  still,  as  ever, 
the  queen  of  the  feast  she  is.  All  at  her  knees  do 
fall.  But  yesterday  one  of  her  lovers,  filled  with  empty 
despair  on  finding  her  unfaithful,  within  the  Rhine 
himself  did  headlong  cast.  This  very  morn  for  her 
sake  did  Ludwig  Von  Siegendorff  a  duel  fight;  his 
adversary  's  dead  -,  himself  is  wounded.  Surely  this  is 
a  great  success ;  all  Leyden  is  talking  about  it  now. 
Why,  then,  her  gloomy  brow  ? 

XL 

Why  do  her  brows  tremble  and  bend  ?  Why  do 
her  long,  black  lashes,  as,  half  closed,  between  them 

236 


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SELECTED    POEMS 

tears  now  slip,  flutter  and  cast  upon  the  satiny  skin 
a  brown  aureole,  a  velvety  shade  such  as  Lawrence 
paints  ?  Why  do  her  troubled  breasts  within  their 
gauze  press  and  under  the  thin  nets  rise  and  fall, 
like  snow  when  blows  the  storm  ?  What  strange 
thought  imparts  so  dreamy  an  air  to  her  lightsome 
face  ?  Is  it  the  remembrance  of  her  first  love  and 
the  voice  of  infancy  ?  Is  it  regret  that  she  has  lost 
her  fair  innocence,  or  of  the  future  is  it  dread  ? 

XLI 

Nay,  it  is  not  that.  Too  thoroughly  corrupt  is  she 
not  to  forget,  and  broken  is  the  chain  that  her  past  to 
her  present  linked.  Besides,  I  do  not  believe  there  be 
in  any  recess  of  her  soul  a  single  one  of  those  remem- 
brances which  in  every  woman's  heart,  howe'er  depraved 
she  may  be,  are  left  of  better  days,  and  remain  spot- 
less within  the  memory's  depths  like  pearls  within  the 
waters  black.  She  is  but  a  coquette,  she  has  never 
loved.  A  ball,  a  supper,  a  party,  an  entertainment  to 
be  given,  pleasure,  —  these  are  the  things  that  take 
her  out  of  herself  and  prevent  her  hearing  the  voice  of 
her  oppressed  heart. 


237 


ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

XLII 

Here  is  the  trouble.  The  night  before  at  the  play 
was  given  Mozart's  "  Don  Juan."  Surrounded  by  her 
lightsome  crowd  of  dandies  young,  —  drawing-room 
butterflies  whose  wings  by  some  Leyden  tailor  have 
been  made, — Veronica  was  present,  the  cynosure  of  all 
eyes,  coquetting  within  her  box  and  radiant  to  behold. 
All  women  else  under  their  rouge  with  rage  turned 
pale,  their  lips  did  bite,  but  she,  sure  to  please,  like  a 
peacock  its  tail  spreading,  her  fan  opened  out,  chatted, 
laughed  aloud,  let  fall  her  glass,  her  glove  took  off,  her 
scent  bottle  passed,  or  made  its  rich  enamel  flash  and 
gleam. 

XLIII 

In  vain  the  actors  wrought  with  might  and  main, 
spun  out  their  finest  notes.  They  made  no  gain. 
Leporello  step  by  step  behind  Don  Juan  walked  in 
vain  i  in  vain  the  Commander  thundered  with  his 
boots,  Zerlina  warbled  playing  with  the  notes,  and 
Donna  Anna  wept.  They  might  have  kept  it  up  for 
a  livelong  year  without  any.  taking  note.  The  stalls 
were  inattentive.  They  talked,  they  looked,  but  looked 
another  way.     Through  the  gold-mounted  glasses  all 


dbx  d^  ^  ^  db  db  ttr  X  X  xxxtlrxdbdbdbdbafdb  db  vdb 

SELECTED    POEMS 

desires  in  the  same  direction  turned.  Veronica  smiled. 
The  joy  of  being  beautiful  made  her  ten  times  more 
beauteous  yet. 

XLIV 

Alone  a  man,  by  a  pillar  standing,  undisturbed,  un- 
amazed  by  the  sensation  great,  from  the  forgotten 
stage  his  glance  never  taking,  in  a  secret  ecstasy  deeply 
drank  those  wondrous  chords,  those  glorious  harmonies, 
which  make  thy  name,  O  Mozart,  shine  over  all ! 
Thy  genius  his  had  seized  and  on  its  wings  borne  it 
to  the  eternal  spheres.  Of  time,  or  place,  or  world,  he 
unconscious  was.  Into  music  he  was  turned  and  his 
heart  as  it  beat,  fluttered  and  sang  with  purest  voice, 
for  he  alone  thy  meaning  caught. 

XLV 

At  most,  between  the  acts,  upon  the  fair  he  coldly 
glanced}  his  eye  flashed  not,  as  if  the  look  had  struck 
against  a  wall.  —  Yet,  like  a  bullet,  swift-sped,  that 
glance  across  the  house  to  Veronica's  heart  shot  true, 
and  unconscious  all,  a  grievous  wound  on  her  inflicted 
—  a  deadly  wound.  So  falls  the  brave,  by  bosky 
corner  slain,  all  glory  less,  laid  low  by  shot  perchance  at 

239 


dbdbx  tb  X  db  X  ^  X  ^  ^^t&dbs;s?%sb:l;3;x  x  xdb 

ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

some  hare  aimed ;  or   killed  by  falling  slate,  or  taken 
ofF  by  fever,  as  he  to  his  home  returns. 

XLVI 

She  who,  till  then,  like  the  salamander  cold  amid 
the  flames,  scarce  deigned  to  give  a  passing  caprice  in 
return  for  passion,  and  made  it  her  delight  —  for  such 
is  woman's  pleasure,  —  hearts  to  torture  and  souls  to 
danm ;  she  who  pitiless  trifled  with  love  as  a  cruel 
child  with  its  plaything  trifles,  forgetting  it  and  far 
away  casting  it  so  soon  as  it  wearies,  —  she  now  was 
suffering  the  pains  that  yesterday  she  caused.  She 
made  men  love  her,  and  now  she  loved,  and  she 
who  captured  at  last  in  her  snare  was  caught.  Her 
haughty  heart  at  last  was  bowed. 

XLVII 

That  is  just  the  way  of  life,  of  fate.  When  on  the 
fatal  dial  strikes  the  hour,  none  may  his  end  for 
a  day  put  off.  No  matter  how  virtuous,  whether  one 
flee  or  stay,  all  must  yield  to  that  power,  infernal 
or  celestial.  Two  things  unavoidable  are,  —  one's 
fate  and  love.  Love,  the  joy  and  scourge  of  earth ! 
sweet  pain  ;  sorrow  one  regrets,  and  so  full  of  charms. 

240 


SELECTED    POEMS 

Laughter  and  tears  ;  pallid,  lovely  care ;  ill,  that  all 
seek  !  A  paradise,  a  hell ;  a  dream,  in  heaven  begun, 
on  earth  prolonged ;   an  enchantment  mysterious  ! 

XLVIII 

Oh,  voluptuousness  intense  !  Pleasure  which,  may- 
hap, of  man  God's  equal  makes !  Who  would  not 
know  you,  if  yet  unknown,  moments  delicious  and  yet 
so  short,  that  are  a  whole  life  worth,  and  which  the 
angel  that  envies  them  would  gladly  pay  for  with  an 
eternity  of  happiness  in  heaven.  Oh,  sea  of  felicity, 
ravishment,  ecstasy,  of  which  no  words  on  earth  can 
convey  the  bliss,  whether  in  prose  or  eke  in  verse  ! 
Oh,  hours  of  trysting !  Oh,  ye  glorious  sleepless 
nights,  delirious  sobs  intoxicate  !  Sighs,  strange  words, 
lost  in  a  caress  !     Kisses  mad  and  wild  desires  ! 

XLIX 

Love,  thou  art  the  only  sin  worth  while  incurring 
hell  for  !  In  vain  in  his  sermons  the  priest  condemns 
thee.  In  vain  within  her  arm-chair,  spectacles  on 
nose,  the  mother  to  her  daughter  as  a  monster  paints 
thee.  In  vain  does  jealous  Orgon  his  door  close  and 
to  his  windows  bars  doth    place.     In   vain,   in   still- 

16  241 


dbdb  !l; ;!:  i:  db  :lr  ^  ir  tb  i?dlr:lrdbdbdb:l?db:lr4rtlr  db  dbdb 

ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

born  tomes,  do  moralists  endlessly  cry  out  against  thee. 
In  vain  coquettes  thy  power  flout.  When  thou  art 
named,  the  novice  herself  doth  cross.  Young  or 
old,  handsome  or  ugly,  rosy-faced  or  pale,  English  or 
French,  pagan  or  Christian,  every  one  loves  at  least 
once  in  life. 

L 

As  for  me,  'twas  last  year  the  frenzy  of  love  fell 
upon  me.  Good-bye  then  to  poetry.  I  'd  not  time 
enough  to  use  it  to  compass  words.  Four  months 
and  a  half  not  another  thing  I  did  save  worship  my 
idol,  adore  her,  wonder  at  her  glorious  hair,  ebony 
waves  in  which  my  hands  loved  to  lose  themselves ; 
listen  to  her  breathing,  watch  her  live,  and  smile  when 
she  smiled  to  me,  drink  deeper  intoxication  from  the 
sight ;  read  her  nascent  desires  within  her  eyes,  on 
her  sleeping  face  note  her  dreams,  and  from  her  rosy 
lips  sip  her  breath  within  a  kiss. 

LI 

But  for  that  the  world  would  have  had  this  poem 
in  eighteen  nine  and  twenty ;  nay,  earlier  yet  j  but,  as 
I  have  said,  I  had  not  leisure  to  string  words  upon  a 
verse    like    pearls    upon   a  string.     With    her   I   was 

242 


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wont  to  go  into  the  great,  deep  woods  to  hear  the 
thrushes  sing,  —  for  the  time  was  spring.  She,  like 
a  child,  scampered  through  the  dew  in  quest  of 
butterflies ;  her  ankles  wet  with  silvery  shower,  she 
went  singing  on,  as  under  her  footsteps  every  flower 
its  calyx  gently  bowed,  and  I  upon  her  gazed. 

LII 

Within  the  rich  green  sward  May  the  strawberry  did 
crimson,  and  when  she  found  one,  happy  and  laughing 
for  joy,  quickly  she  ran  to  me  that  I  might  with  her  share, 
but  I  would  not.  Then  came  the  battle.  With  one 
arm  I  seized  her  two  wrists  and  her  waist,  and  with  my 
other  hand  forced  her  of  the  fruit  to  eat.  At  first  she 
resisted,  but  soon  wearying  of  the  unequal  struggle,  for 
mercy  begged,  promising  to  pay  a  ransom  of  kisses ; 
then,  like  the  bird  whose  cage  is  opened,  she  'd  take  to 
flight  and  escape,  the  witch,  to  conceal  herself  behind 
a  bush. 

LIII 

Next  I  *d  hear  her  laugh  amid  the  leaves  at  having 
tricked  me  thus.  —  Some  busy  bee  emerging  from 
a  bell,  a  lizard,  a  grasshopper  on  its  long  slender  legs 
springing,    a   caterpillar   caught    upon    her  lace,  soon 

243 


ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

brought  her  back  uttering  dreadful  shrieks.  Then 
she  'd  hide  her  head  upon  my  breast,  quite  pale,  trem- 
bling when  the  branches  in  the  wind  did  move.  Her 
beauteous  breasts  with  the  beating  of  her  heart  trembled 
and  fluttered  like  two  little  turtle-doves  caught  in  their 
nest,  and  which  flutter  their  wings  lightly  in  the  hands 
of  the  fowler. 

LIV 

While  reassuring  her,  with  practised  hand  the  mon- 
ster I  would  seize,  and,  her  fear  now  gone,  she  'd  turn 
to  laughter  again,  and,  nestling  on  me  anew,  laugh  at 
herself  and  kiss  me  as  she  said,  **  Ye  heavens,  how  I 
love  him ! "  Then  when  I  kissed  her  back,  dreamy 
she  leaned  her  head  upon  my  shoulder  and  closed  her 
eyes,  as  if  to  sleep  away.  The  long  beam  of  light 
pressing  through  the  leaves  gilded  her  lovely  brow. 
The  nightingale  sang  its  pearly  trills,  and  the  scent-per- 
fumed breeze  softly  breathed  under  the  arches  green. 

LV 

Never  a  word  we  spake  and  sad  we  both  did  seem, 
and  yet  if  anywhere  on  earth  happiness  doth  exist,  we 
twain  most  happy  were.  But  what  could  speech  have 
served  ?     On   ruddy  lips  the  words    we  stayed ;    the 

244 


SELECTED    POEMS 

thoughts  we  knew.  We  had  but  one  mind,  but  one 
soul  for  the  pair  of  us,  and,  as  it  were,  in  Paradise  in 
one  another's  embrace  locked,  we  could  not  dream 
other  heaven  than  ours  might  be.  Our  veins,  our 
hearts  in  harmony  pulsed  ;  in  the  ravishment  of  ecstasy 
profound  the  very  world  was  well  forgot ;  nor  before 
our  eyes  did  horizon  spread. 

LVI 

Gone  is  all  that  happiness.  Who  'd  have  believed 
it  ?  Each  to  the  other  now  a  stranger  is,  for  *t  is  the 
way  of  men,  —  whose  Ever  is  never  greater  than  a  six 
months'  span  ?  Our  love  has  flown,  —  Heaven  knows 
whither.  My  goddess,  like  painted  butterfly  that  flies 
and  leaves  but  bloom  of  red  and  white  upon  the  finger 
tips,  her  flight  has  taken,  leaving  in  my  heart  naught 
but  mistrust  of  the  present  and  bitter  remembrance  of 
the  past.  But  what  of  that  ?  Love  is  a  strange  thing. 
In  those  bygone  days  I  loved,  and  now  I  set  my  loves 
so  fair  in  wretched  verse. 

LVII 

Thus,  gentle  reader,  is  my  whole  story  told  most 
faithfully    to   you,  so  far  as  my  memory    (an    ill-kept 

H5 


dbdc  X  tb  X  tb  di?  X  X  X  xxdbtl^dbdbdbabdbafdk  xtfcv 

ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

register)  can  recall  to  my  thoughts  trifles  that  mean  so 
much,  for  they  make  up  love,  and  by  and  by  we  laugh 
at  them.  —  Forgive  this  pause.  The  bubble  I  took 
pleasure  in  blowing  and  which  floated  in  the  air,  gor- 
geous with  prismatic  fires,  has  suddenly  faded  out  into 
mere  drop  of  water,  bursting  when  it  touched  the  gable- 
rooPs  angle.  Even  so,  when  it  met  reality,  my  glorious 
dream  was  spent,  and  now  for  mother  only  have  I  love. 
All  other  affection  in  me  has  died  out. 

LVIII 

Except  love  for  thee,  O  Poesy,  that  speakest  ever 
loud  in  chosen  souls  !  Poesy !  O  golden-haloed  angel, 
who,  passing  from  one  world  to  another  without  fear 
of  soiling  thy  white  form  by  contact  with  ours  for 
a  moment,  within  the  gloom  of  our  night  thy  flight 
dost  stay ;  whisperest  words  to  us,  and  with  the  tip  of 
thy  wing  driest  our  bitter  tears.  And  thou.  Poesy's 
twin  sister.  Painting,  God  rivalling,  and  His  equal, 
sublime  deception,  wondrous  imposture,  that  life  re- 
storest  and  nature  doublest,  to  you  twain  I  do  not  bid 
farewell. 


246 


SELECTED    POEMS 

LIX 

Let  me  to  my  theme  return.  The  young  enthusiast 
a  handsome  cavalier  was  in  very  truth,  and  certes  a 
maid  more  chaste  than  Veronica  might  well  for  him 
love  have  felt.  But  before  I  go  farther  it  might  be 
well  to  sketch  his  portrait,  for  the  outer  form  helps  one 
to  know  what  is  within.  Foreign  suns  had  shone  upon 
him  and  enriched  with  hue  of  tan  his  Italian  skin, 
naturally  pale.  His  hair,  wildered  by  his  hands'  agita- 
tion, fell  over  a  brow  which  Gall  ecstatically  would 
have  felt  for  six  months,  and  taken  for  base  for  a  dozen 
treatises. 

LX 

An  imperial  brow  of  artist  and  poet ;  that  of  itself 
the  half  of  the  head  did  form.  Broad  and  full,  bending 
under  inspiration  which  in  each  wrinkle  untimely 
drawn,  concealed  superhuman  power,  great  thoughts  ; 
and  it  bore  written  these  words,  "  Belief  and  Power." 
The  rest  of  the  face  corresponded  with  this  noble  brow, 
yet  was  there  something  in  it  unpleasant,  and,  faultless 
though  it  was,  one  wished  it  might  have  different  been. 
Irony  and  sarcasm  gleamed  over  it,  rather  than  genius. 
The  lower  part  the  upper  seemed  to  mock. 

247 


ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

LXI 

Strange  the  effect  of  this  combination.  It  was  like 
a  dennon  under  angel's  tread  writhing;  hell  under 
heaven  opened.  Though  he  had  glorious  eyes,  long 
ebony  brows  towards  the  temples  fining,  over  the  skin 
gliding  as  a  serpent  crawls,  a  fringe  of  fluttering  silken 
lashes,  yet  his  lion-like  glance  and  the  fatal  flash  that 
shot  at  times  from  his  eyes  made  one  shudder  and 
turn  pale  in  spite  of  all.  The  boldest  look  must,  per- 
force, be  cast  down  before  that  Medusa  glance  which 
could  change  to  stone,  though  gentle  he  strove  to  make 
it  seem. 

LXII 

On  his  stern  lip,  shadowed  at  each  end  with  a  slight 
mustache,  elegantly  waxed,  a  mechanical  smile  at  times 
rested,  but,  in  general,  his  expression  deepest  disdain  did 
plain  betray.  In  vain  the  fair,  having  again  in  society 
met  him,  did  all  that  in  such  case  coquette  may  do  to 
draw  him  to  her  feet.  To  her  amazement,  nothing 
could  touch  his  adamantine  heart.  Glances  from  be- 
hind her  fan,  sighs,  simperings,  half-spoken  avowals, 

teasing  arch,  —  all  failed,  and  utterly. 

_ 


SELECTED    POEMS 

LXIII 

He  was  not  the  man  to  let  himself  be  caught  in  the 
nets  Veronica  tried  to  set  for  him.  A  great  eagle 
scarce  sacrifices  a  feather  to  the  lime  which  a  sparrow 
holds.  The  foolish  fly  is  caught  by  the  wing  within 
the  web  the  spider  spins  in  comer  dark,  but  the  wasp 
the  whole  with  her  bears  away,  and  Gulliver,  with 
single  effort,  breaks  the  Liliputians'  silken  chains.  Yet 
so  fine  a  prey  was  well  worth  troubling  for,  so,  if  she 
did  not  plainly  speak  the  words,  "  I  love  you,"  she  tried 
every  art.  But  he,  unchanging  still,  on  her  bestowed 
no  thought. 

LXIV 

This  was  the  reason  why  her  door  to  comers  all  was 
closed.  For,  indeed,  what  cared  her  anxious  heart  for 
her  courtier  train  ?  These  handsome  fellows,  these  dan- 
dies, who  before  now  delighted  her,  seemed  at  this 
time  affected  or  vulgar,  their  perfumed  madrigals  wearied 
her.  Noise  and  light  to  her  brought  pain  i  all  things 
troubled  and  annoyed  her.  On  her  dainty  hand  she 
rests  her  brow  j  her  dimpled  arm  upon  her  chair  hangs 
limp.     Poor  girl !  just   see  the  pallor  of  her  cheeks ! 

249 


ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

Grief  her  roses  to  pearls  has  changed  j  within  her  eyes 
the  tears  begin  to  well. 

LXV 

The  paper  which  the  fair,  with  anguished  mien, 
with  rosy-nailed  fingers  crushes  and  crumples,  unques- 
tionably a  love-letter  is  on  azure  vellum,  which  through 
the  room  sheds  sweet  and  fashionable  scent  of  amber. 
—  I  know  all  about  it.  —  Yet  the  handwriting  and  the 
turn  of  phrase  have  something  about  them  that  tell  of 
woman.  Is  it,  then,  a  note  intercepted  from  a  rival,  or 
does  the  lady  on  her  own  account  to  some  young  beau 
now  write  ?  The  latter  fact  seems  proved  by  the  black 
spot  upon  the  white  finger  tip,  by  the  inkstand,  and  by 
the  raven's  quill. 

LXVI 

Suddenly,  bird-like  looking  up,  and  throwing  back  a 
curl  astray,  her  indolent  pose  she  leaves,  and  begins, 
before  calling  for  light  and  wax  to  seal  her  note,  to 
read  again  quite  low,  as  if  afraid  the  echo  might  under- 
stand. "  I  will  not  send  it.  I  've  written  it  ill,"  she 
says,  the  paper  tearing.  Low  is  her  voice.  "  It  is  only 
fit  within  the  fire  to  go."     It  was  very  cold,  the  flames 

250 


SELECTED    POEMS 

were  hot.  The  paper,  like  the  damned  in  hell,  flashed 
up  in  blaze  of  blue, 

LXVII 

And  disappeared.  —  While  the  sheet  is  being  consumed, 
the  girl  another  takes,  a  moment  thinks,  and  then  begins. 
Her  hand,  as  swift  as  race-horse  at  Newmarket,  scarce 
the  paper  touches.  She  's  filled  her  page  while  yet  the 
ink  of  the  first  words  undried  is.  — "  Don  Juan  !  "  — 
With  uncovered  head,  Don  Juan  before  the  lady  stands. 
—  Veronica  agitated,  with  her  eyes  burning  bright : 
"  This  note  to  my  lord  Albertus."  —  "  The  painter 
who  lives  at  the  inn  of  the  Monkey  Green  ?  **  —  "  The 
same ;  and  within  an  hour  at  farthest,  Don  Juan,  see 
thit  you  are  back." 

LXVIII 

Albertus,  I  need  not  tell  you,  is  the  handsome  swain 
I  've  just  described  a  few  stanzas  above.  An  artist 
was  he,  loving  with  passion  fanatical  painting  and 
verse,  to  the  full  as  much  as  music.  Nor  could  he 
have  told,  had  God  the  choice  given  him,  which  he 
would  rather  be,  Mozart  or  Dante.  But  I  who  knew 
him  as  well  as   he  did  himself,  —  better  perhaps,  —  I 

251 


ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

believe  that  he  would  have  said  Raphael.  For,  of  these 
three  sisters  equal  in  merit,  at  bottom  painting  was  his 
favorite  and  his  truest  talent. 

LXIX 

He  considered  the  world  an  infamous  pot-house. 
What  he  believed  about  woman  and  man  was  what 
Hamlet  thought,  —  he  would  not  have  given  a  copper 
for  the  pair.  Womankind  delighted  him  not,  save  in 
painting,  and  having  since  birth  inquired  the  why  and 
wherefore,  he  was  pessimistic  as  the  oldest  of  men 
might  be ;  consequently,  more  generally  sad  than  other- 
wise. Love  was  but  an  empty  word  to  him ;  although 
quite  young,  still,  for  long  years  past,  of  belief  in  it  he 
had  still  none.  Thus  within  his  days  moved  many 
hours  of  weariness. 

LXX 

All  the  same,  his  ills  he  patient  bore.  Great  knowl- 
edge a  very  great  scourge  is  sure  to  be ;  a  child  into  an 
old  man  it  makes.  At  the  very  outset  of  life,  novice 
though  one  be,  there  is  nothing  new  in  what  one  feels  ; 
when  the  cause  appears  the  effect  is  already  known ; 
existence  is  burdensome ;    all    is  savourless.     To  the 

252 


SELECTED    POEMS 

sick  man's  palate  pimento  tasteless  is ;  the  much-tried 
nostrils  scarce  can  ether  smell :  love  becomes  a  mere 
spasm  ;  glory  an  empty  phrase  ;  like  a  squeezed  lemon 
arid  the  heart  becomes.  Behind  Werther  Don  Juan 
ever  stalks. 

LXXI 

Our  hero,  like  Eve  his  ancestress,  had,  by  the  ser- 
pent urged,  tasted  the  bitter  fruit.  A  god  he  desired  to 
be.  When  naked  he  beheld  himself  and  possessed  in 
full  of  knowledge  human,  he  longed  for  death,  but  his 
courage  failed  him,  and  as  one  tires  of  treading  the 
well-known  path,  he  sought  a  new  road  to  discover. 
Now,  did  he  find  the  world  of  his  dreams  ?  I  doubt  it, 
for  in  the  search  his  passions  he  had  outworn.  He  had 
lifted  up  the  veil  and  glanced  behind.  At  twenty  he 
might  have  been  laid  in  his  cofEn  dark,  of  all  illusions 
bereft. 

LXXII 

Woe !  Woe !  unto  him  who  the  fathomless  ocean 
of  man's  heart  imprudently  seeks  to  sound  !  Too  oft 
the  sounding  lead,  instead  of  golden  sand  and  pearly 
shells  that  lovely  shine,  brings  up  but  foul  and  stinking 
mud If  I   could   live  another  life  again,  certes   I 

253 


dbx  X  X  7?  X  a?  dp  X  4?  t!?x^^ti?dp?i?xxtl?&  s?  tsw 

ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

should  not  within  it  all  search  out  as  hitherto  I  have 
done.  What  matters  after  all,  whether  the  cause  be 
sad,  if  the  effect  produced  be  sweet  ?  Let  us  be  merry  ; 
let  us  outwardly  be  happy.  A  handsome  mask  is  bet- 
ter than  an  ugly  face.     Then  why,  poor  fools,  do  we 

snatch  it  off  ? 

LXXIII 

If  he  had  been  the  arbiter  of  his  fate  you  may  be 
sure  that  many  a  chapter  of  life's  novel  he  would  have 
skipped,  and  passed  at  once  to  the  conclusion  of  this 
most  foolish  tale.  But  uncertain  whether  he  ought  to 
doubt,  deny,  believe,  or  seek  in  death  the  riddle's 
answer,  like  down  wind-driven  he  let  his  life  drift 
on  as  chance  itself  did  will.  The  affairs  of  the  world 
troubled  him  but  little  :  the  things  of  heaven  interested 
him  still  less.  As  far  as  his  soul  went,  I  must  tell  you, 
even  at  the  risk  of  your  blame  incurring,  that  he  did 
not  believe  in  its  existence  any  more  than  in  God's. 

LXXIV 

That  was  the  way  he  was  made  —  a  nature  strange 
—  and  yet  his  soul,  which  he  disbelieved  in,  was  pure. 
What  he  sought  was  nothingness  ;  nothing  would  he 
have  gained  if  hell  had  been  suppressed.     A  strange 

254 


SELECTED    POEMS 

man  indeed  !  He  possessed  every  virtue  he  ridiculed, 
and  the  angel  who,  above,  in  his  record  indignant  wrote 
some  gross  heresy,  some  damnable  sophistry,  when  it 
came  to  deeds  found  him  less  guilty,  and  as  he  beheld 
within  his  nature  the  good  and  holy,  once  more  the 
anathema  withheld.  For  a  fallen  tear  the  blasphemy 
had  blotted  from  the  fatal  page. 

LXXV 

Now,  for  a  change  of  scene.  —  At  present  we  are 
at  the  Green  Monkey  Inn,  the  abode  of  my  lord 
Albertus,  and  in  his  studio.  Tell  me,  most  ordinary 
reader,  do  you  know  what  a  painter's  studio  is  ?  —  A 
tempered  light  from  above  falling  gives  everything  an 
aspect  strange.  It  is  like  a  picture  by  Rembrandt,  in 
which  the  canvas  shows  a  white  dot  shining  through 
the  dark.  —  In  the  centre  of  the  room  by  the  easel, 
under  the  brilliant  beam  in  which  atoms  whirl,  stands 
a  lay  figure  that  might  a  phantom  be.  Everything  half 
shadow  and  reflection  is. 

LXXVI 

The  shadows  grow  deeper  within  the  corners  than 
even  under  the  old  arches  of  a  nave.      It  is  a  world, 

255 


XXX  db  X  X  a?  ^  X  #r  xx^xtsxsbxxxx  acxdb 

ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

a  universe  apart,  in  no  wise  resembling  the  world  we 
live  in;  a  fantastic  world  in  which  everything  to  the 
eyes  doth  speak ;  everything  is  poetic ;  in  which 
modern  art  shines  by  the  side  of  that  of  old.  Beautiful 
things  of  every  time  and  every  land  :  a  sample  page, 
from  the  book  out  torn  j  weapons,  furniture,  drawings, 
casts,  marbles,  pictures,  Giotto,  Cimabue,  Ghirlandajo, 
and  I  know  not  whom ;  Reynolds  by  Hemskerk's  side, 
Watteau  by  Correggio's,  and  Perugino  between  the  Van 
Loos  twain. 

LXXVII 

Lacquered  ware  and  vases  of  Japan,  monsters  and 
porcelain  ware,  pagodas  golden  with  little  bells  all  hung, 
glorious  Chinese  fans  it  would  take  too  long  to  describe; 
Spanish  knives,  Malay  creeses,  with  wavy  blades ; 
khandjars,  yataghans  with  rich-wrought  sheaths;  lin- 
stock arquebusses,  matchlocks,  blunderbusses;  helms 
and  corslets,  battle-maces,  bassinets,  damaged,  in  holes, 
rusted,  stained ;  innumerable  objects,  good  for  nothing, 
but  glorious  to  behold ;  Oriental  caftans,  doublets 
mediaeval ;  rebecs  and  psalteries,  instruments  outworn  : 
a  den,  a  museum,  and  a  boudoir  in  one  ! 


256 


SELECTED    POEMS 

LXXVIII 

Around  the  walls  many  canvases  hanging,  untouched 
for  the  most  part,  others  just  begun  ;  a  chaos  of  colours 
but  half  alive.  —  Leonora  on  horseback,  Macbeth  and 
the  witches,  Lara's  children.  Marguerite  at  prayer; 
sketches  of  portraits,  among  which  one  framed,  of 
a  young  girl,  light  on  a  dark  background,  stands  out 
and  sparkles ;  so  fair  that  one  knows  not  by  what  name 
to  call  it,  whether  peri,  fairy,  or  sylph,  —  a  graceful, 
delicate  being ;  an  angel  from  heaven  whose  wings  have 
been  clipped  to  prevent  its  flying  away. 

LXXIX 

With  her  beautiful  head  and  her  thoughtful,  resigned 
look,  she  seemed  to  be  a  Mater  Dei^  after  Masaccio, 
yet  it  was  only  the  portrait  of  a  former  mistress,  the 
one  he  best  and  most  loved  ;  a  Venetian,  who,  in  her 
gondola  one  night  on  the  Canaleio  had  been  stabbed  to 
death.  The  beauty's  husband,  knowing  her  unfaithful, 
had  planned  the  deed.  The  story  was  a  regular  romance. 
Albertus  to  the  dead  had  drawn  near,  the  black  stuff 
pulled  away,  sketched  the  portrait,  which  he  finished 
from  memory,  and  then  never  again  after  of  her  spokie. 

~7  Tyj  " 


ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

LXXX 

Only  when  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  canvas,  concealed 
from  indifferent  glances  by  a  curtain  thick,  a  furtive 
tear,  forthwith  dried  up,  gleamed  in  them.  A  sigh  from 
out  his  breast  softly  rose,  his  brows  he  bent,  but  ne'er 
a  word  did  say.  At  Venice  an  Englishman  dared  make 
an  offer ;  he  would  have  emptied  his  purse  the  master- 
piece to  own,  but  that  would  have  been  to  profane  — 
/'/  Santo  Ritratto  —  and  as  he  persisted  and  offered  yet 
more  wealth,  Albertus  raging  sought  to  drown  the  man 
below  the  Rialto. 

LXXXI 

Albertus  was  painting.  It  was  a  landscape.  Salva- 
tor  would  have  nas^ed  it  Selve  selvagge.  Rocks  in  the 
foreground,  in  the  middle  distance  the  towers  of  a  castle 
showing  their  sharp  vanes  against  a  blood-red  sky  filled 
with  islands  of  clouds.  The  mighty  oaks  were  bending 
like  the  lightest  trees,  leaves  up  in  the  air  did  whirl, 
the  faded  grass,  like  the  rolling  billows  of  a  midnight 
sea,  under  its  gusts  did  rise  and  fall ;  while  incessant 
lightning  with  its  red  light  lit  up  the  tops  of  the  blown 
pines,  bending  o'er  the  depths  as  over  the  mouth  of 
hell. 

^^8 


SELECTED    POEMS 

LXXXII 

A  man  came  in.  It  was  Juan.  A  blue  light  shone 
in  the  studio,  and  though  he  had  no  tail,  nor  horns,  nor 
cloven  foot,  although  he  did  not  smell  of  pitch  or 
sulphur,  his  eagle  glance,  his  lip  by  grin  sardonic  curled, 
his  gesture  stiff,  his  voice,  his  gait,  would  have  made 
any  man  at  all  prudent  hasten  quick  to  his  Bible  and 
sprinkle  him  with  holy  water.  None  of  these  things 
did  Albertus  do.  He  looked  and  saw  him  not,  for  his 
soul  and  his  eyes  on  his  painting  were  fixed. —  "My 
lord,  a  note,"  said  this  devil  Mercury  as  he  pulled  at  his 
doublet. 

LXXXIII 

The  painter  the  note  opened,  looked  for  a  signature, 
and  none  did  find.  —  "  Base  wretch,"  between  his  teeth 
he  muttered. —  " Will  you  go?"  — "I  will."  — 
"  When  ?  "  asked  Don  Juan  in  softened  tone.  —  "  Im- 
mediately." —  "  By  Jupiter,  that  is  the  way  to  speak. 
The  lady  lives  but  a  step  from  here.  I  shall  lead 
you  thither."  — "  It  is  well,"  said  Albertus,  taking 
down  his  sword,  an  Andrea  Ferrara,  a  trusty  blade 
tempered  with  the  blood  of  many  a  brave.  "  I  am 
with  you.     Pietro  ! "  —  A  sunburnt   face  at  the  door 

259 


ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

appeared    and    said  ;  "  What   doth    my     lord  will  ?  " 
*'  Quick,  bring  here  to  me  my  cloak  and  hat." 

LXXXIV 

In  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell,  the  man  was  back. 
In  a  moment  the  young  cavalier's  toilet  was  done,  and 
the  valet  having  brought  a  mirror,  he  smiled,  and  with 
himself  seemed  well  content.  But  suddenly,  his  com- 
plexion, always  pale,  a  paler  white  did  turn.  Whether 
he  saw  it  or  merely  fancied  it  —  he  'd  seen  within  the 
frame  the  Venetian  lady's  head  move,  and  her  mute  lips 
ope  as  if  she  sought  to  speak.  "  Well,  my  lord  ?  " 
said  Don  Juan.  —  "  Dear  one,"  the  painter  said,  the 
portrait  kissing  with  a  sad,  soft  smile,  "  it  is  too  late 
to  draw  back  now." 

LXXXV 

The  pair  went  out.  Deserted  was  the  town.  Scarce 
here  and  there  some  open  window.  The  rain  with 
swift-falling  drops  the  dark  sky  rayed ;  the  north  wind 
made  every  vane  shriek  and  scream  as  in  heavy  weather 
scream  the  gulls.  A  belated  toper  went  by,  pitching  up 
against  the  walls ;  a  street  girl  at  her  corner  waited. 
Albertus,  silent  and  gloomy,  followed  Juan.     Surely  he 

260 


SELECTED    POEMS 

had  neither  the  mien  nor  the  gait  of  a  lover  ;  a  thief  to 
the  gibbet  led,  or  schoolboy  on  his  way  to  punishment, 
never  stepped  more  slow  than  he. 

LXXXVI 

He  might  to  his  place  have  returned,  but  the  adven- 
ture after  all  was  really  strange  and  such  as  ardently  to 
pique  his  curiosity ;  so  our  hero  meant  to  see  the  end. 
The  house  was  reached.  Don  Juan  seized  the  brazen 
knocker  of  the  postern  door  and  knocked  a  master's 
knock.  Black  eyes,  white  brows,  gleamed  behind  the 
panes.  The  house  was  illumined,  and  light  flashed 
upon  the  darkened  walls ;  from  landing  to  landing  the 
light  came  down ;  the  bronze  door  oped,  and  the 
splendid,  vast  interior  to  the  young  cavalier's  gaze  was 
revealed. 

LXXXVII 

A  little  negro  boy,  a  torch  of  perfumed  wax  holding, 
under  the  porch  was  standing,  in  rich  and  gallant  livery 
of  scarlet  trimmed  with  gold.  — "  Here,"  said  Juan, 
"  fair  page,  lead  his  lordship  by  the  secret  passage."  — 
Albertus  followed.  At  the  end  of  the  corridor  a  cur- 
tain rich  half  drawn  back  behind  him  closed.  Scenting 
his  approach,  two  great  white  greyhounds  on  the  carpet 

261 


ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

lying,  snufFed  the  air,  raised  their  long  heads,  uttered 
low  and  anxious  whimper,  and  then  fell  back  and 
dozed. 

LXXXVIII 

Upon  my  word,  it  looked  like  the  room  of  a  duchess. 
Everything  was  to  be  found  in  it,  —  comfort,  elegance, 
and  wealth.  On  a  handsome  citron-wood  table  shone 
an  alabaster  lamp  that  cast  around  a  soft  and  bluish 
light.  Pearls,  silks,  a  casket  with  steel  knobs,  rich 
sepias,  bright  water-colours,  albums,  screens  delicately 
wrought;  the  latest  review,  the  most  recent  novel, 
a  black  mask  broken ;  innumerable  fashionable  trifles 
cast  pell-mell  were  strewn  upon  chairs  and  tables  in 
attractive  disorder. 

LXXXIX 

Our  inamorata,  half  seated,  half  lying  upon  a  divan 
soft,  uttered,  as  if  surprised,  a  little  cry  when  Albertus 
entered  ;  then,  her  glance  the  mirror  gaining,  puffed  out 
her  sleeve  and  rearranged  a  disorderly  ribbon.  Never 
had  the  signora  been  better  dressed.  She  was  adorable, 
just  fit  to  make  recruits  for  the  devil  —  as  fit  as  society 
lady,  nay,  more.      Her  black  and  brilliant  eyes  showed 

262 


SELECTED    POEMS 

under  their  long  eyelids  such  morbidexxa^  her  manner, 
her  gestures,  such  graceful  abandon. 

XC 

For  a  moment  Albertus  thought  he  saw  his  Venetian 
fair.  The  strange  head-dress,  adorned  in  the  Italian 
fashion  with  great  golden  balls  and  sequins  pierced  ; 
the  coral  necklace,  the  cross,  the  amulet,  the  knots  of 
ribbons,  the  whole  dress ;  the  rich-coloured  skin  with 
its  warm,  deep  tones ;  the  dreamy  look,  the  lazy  atti- 
tude ;  the  glance  identical,  the  speech  the  same.  She 
resembled  her  so  that  he  was  deceived.  Knowing 
Albertus  and  his  temper  eccentric,  the  witch  had 
thought  it  well   to   assume    this    mask   to    slake   her 

lust. 

XCI 

Veronica  rang.  The  golden  portiere  parted.  A 
little  page,  a  rich  livery  wearing,  entered,  trays  in  his 
hands  bearing  —  a  genuine  Flemish  page,  a  fair  and 
rosy  head  like  that  seen  in  Terburg's  painting  in  the 
Louvre.  Upon  the  table  he  placed  flagons  and  cakes, 
silver  cups  and  silverware,  poured  the  wine  into  glasses 
lofty,  bowed  to  the  lovers,  and  then  withdrew.  The 
wine  was  Rhine  wine,  whose  golden  robe  was  turning 

263 


ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

yellow  with  age,  a  wine  bottled   at   least  an  hundred 
years  ago,  or  two. 

XCII 

Within  the  tankards  it  glowed  like  gold.  A  single 
glass  would  have  sufficed  a  man  to  daze;  with  the 
second  Albertus  quite  tipsy  was.  To  his  fascinated 
glance  all  things  did  double  show,  floating  contourless 
in  vapour  dim;  the  floor  uprose,  the  walls  appeared 
to  spin.  As  for  the  beauty,  all  shame  behind  her  cast- 
ing, and  letting  her  lust  a  free  hand  have,  with  her 
passionate  arms  she  clasped  him  round  the  neck,  clung 
to  his  body  in  heat  and  madness,  clutched  at  his  head 
and  tried  to  make  him  bend  until  her  lips  he  met. 

XCIII 

Albertus  was  neither  of  ice  nor  stone  ;  and  even  had 
he  been,  under  the  dark  eyelids  of  the  lady  shone  a 
sun  whose  fire  would  stone  have  vivified  and  melted 
ice.  An  angel,  a  son  of  heaven,  to  be  in  his  place 
would  have  sold  his  stall  in  the  paradise  of  God.  — 
"  Oh  ! "  said  he,  "  my  heart  burns  with  the  strange 
flame  that  in  your  glance  flashes,  and  my  soul  I  'd  give 
to  possess  you  alone,  wholly    and  forever.     A   single 

264 


SELECTED    POEMS 

word  of  your  lips  would  make  me  renounce  life  eternal, 
for  is  eternity  worth  a  single  minute  of  your  days  ?  " 

XCIV 

—  "  Is  that  the  truth  ?  "  answered  Veronica,  a  smile 
on  her  lips  and  with  an  ironic  look.  "■  And  will  you 
repeat  what  you  just  have  said  ?  "  "  That  to  possess 
you,  to  the  devil  I  'd  give  my  soul,  if  have  it  the  devil 
would  ?  Yea,  madam,  I  've  said  it."  — "  Then  forever 
accursed  be !  **  cried  the  young  man's  guardian  angel. 
"  From  you  I  go,  for  no  longer  are  you  God's."  —  The 
painter  in  his  madness  heard  not  the  voice,  and  the 
angel  flew  away.  A  glow  of  sulphur  filled  the  room, 
and  Mephistophelian  laughter  indescribable  suddenly 
sounded   in  the  air. 

XCV 

For  an  instant  Veronica's  eyes  shone  with  darksome 
fire  like  those  of  orfreys  in  darkness  hid.  Albertus 
saw  it  not,  for  certes,  had  he  beheld  the  glance,  great 
though  his  courage,  he  would  have  crossed  himself 
for  fear,  on  beholding  the  wild  and  grim  look,  —  for 
it  was  indeed  a  glance  that  spoke  of  unending  evil, 
a  glance  of  the  damned,  of  the  devil  the  time  inquiring. 

265 


ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

It  read  :  "  Ever,  Forever,  Eternity  !  "  Most  horrible, 
truly.  The  eye  of  man  blasted  by  such  a  glance  would 
die  and  melt  as  melts  the  pitch  within  the  furnace  cast. 

XCVI 

Her  lips  trembled.  It  seemed  as  if  some  blasphemy 
were  about  to  escape,  when  suddenly  she  said,  "  I 
love  you,"  springing  like  a  maddened  tiger.  "  But 
know  you  well  what  is  woman's  love  ?  When  you 
asked  for  mine  did  you  test  your  soul  ?  Did  you 
estimate  aright  the  strength  of  your  heart  ?  What 
mighty  power  within  you  do  you  feel  capable  of 
bearing  such  burden  without  fail  ?  '  Ever,  forever !  ' 
Think  again !  Within  the  wide  universe  but  one 
being  is  capable  of  love  eternal.  That  being  is  God, 
for  He  unchanging  is.  Man,  creature  of  a  day,  but 
for  a  day  doth  love." 

XCVII 

Within  the  room,  a  beam   from  the  lamp,  stealing 

pale  and  faint  upon  the  gilded  walls,  behind  the  curtains, 

discreetly  drawn,  a  bed  suggests.  —  Albertus,  no  word 

answering  (the  best  reply,  after  all),  thither  draws  her, 

and  to  the  edge  of  the  bed  doth  her  gently  push.  .  .  . 

— _ 


xxxdfx  dbxxxxxxxxtfcvti?9bdbxv9rdbx 

SELECTED    POEMS 

Here  in  his  shame-faced  style  a  classical  narrator,  with 
embarrassment  blushing,  does  not  fail  to  stop.  —  What 
are  not  these  worthy  points  made  to  say  ?  Basilio 
never  strikes  them  out  on  the  ground  that  they  are 
immoral,  and  in  a  novel  chaste  they  stand  as  the 
hieroglyph  of  what  is  not  particularly  chaste,  or  not 
at  all. 

XCVIII 

But  I,  who  am  no  prude,  and  have  no  gauze  or 
vine-leaf  on  my  sentence  to  stick,  not  one  thing  shall 
I  omit.  —  The  ladies  who  this  moral  tale  may  read 
I  beg  will  be  indulgent  to  a  few  warm  details ;  the 
wisest  of  them,  I  trow,  will  note  them  without  a  blush  ; 
the  others  will  scream.  Besides  —  and  mothers  of 
families  will  please  take  notice,  —  what  I  am  writing 
is  not  intended  for  maidens  young  whose  bread  and 
butter  is  cut  in  slices  for  them.  My  lines  are  a  young 
man's  lines,  and  not  a  catechism.  Emasculate  them 
I  will  not ;  in  their  decent  cynicism  they  go  on, 
straight  or  crooked. 

XCIX 

Little  reck  I,  provided  my  lady  Poesy,  their  mistress 
absolute,  finds  them  tickle  her  fancy  ;  so,  chaste  like 

267 


ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

Adam  before  the  Fall,  they  onward  freely  go  in  their 
sainted  nudity,  free  from  all  vice,  and  showing  without 
fear  all  that  the  hypocrite  world  so  carefully  conceals.  — 
I  am  not  of  those  whom  a  bosom  bared  or  a  skirt 
rather  short  compels  aside  to  look ;  my  gaze  on  these 
things  does  not  rest  by  preference.  —  Why  declaim  so 
much  against  an  artist's  work?  What  he  does  is 
sacred.  —  Pray,  ye  rigorous  critics,  do  you  see  naught 
else  than  that  ? 


The  stay-lace  the  painter  had  cut.  Veronica's 
lovely  frame  for  sole  vestment  her  Flanders  linen  now 
had  on  ;  a  mere  cloud  of  lawn  ;  spun  air  ;  a  breath  ;  a 
mist  of  gauze,  that  under  its  network  allowed  the  gaze 
to  wander  with  delight ;  in  a  word,  the  flimsiest  stufF 
you  can  think  of.  —  It  did  not  take  Albertus  long  to 
tear  away  this  rampart  frail,  and  in  a  hand's  turn  he 
had  his  beauty  nude.  —  He  was  wrong  ;  it  is  spoiling 
one's  own  pleasure  ;  this  sort  of  thing  is  killing  one's 
own  love  and  its  grave  digging,  alas  !  for  too  oft  with 
the  veil  illusion  and  desire  both  fall  away. 


268 


SELECTED    POEMS 

a 

Not  thus  this  time;  the  lady  was  so  fair  that  a 
saint  in  heaven  would  for  her  sake  damnation  have 
welcomed.  A  poet  in  love  could  not  have  thought 
out  an  ideal  more  perfect.  —  O  Nature !  Nature  !  by 
the  side  of  thy  work  what  is  painting  worth  ?  What 
becomes  of  Raphael,  of  beauty  the  lord  ?  What  of 
Correggio,  Guido,  and  Giorgione,  Titian  and  all  the 
names  whose  praise  one  age  to  the  other  sings  ?  O 
Raphael,  believe  me,  thy  brushes  cast  away,  and  thou, 
Titian,  thy  palette.  God  alone  the  mighty  Master  is ; 
His  secret  well  he  keeps,  and  none  may  make  it  out ; 
in  vain  we   strive. 

CII 

Oh,  the  lovely  picture !  —  Blushing  rosy  red  with 
shame,  red  as  berry  in  May,  upon  her  heaving  breasts 
her  head  she  bows  and  her  arms  doth  cross  —  with  her 
arch,  roguish  look,  her  little  pout,  her  long  fluttering 
lashes  her  cheeks  caressing,  her  skin,  browner  showing 
'gainst  the  white  sheets,  her  long  hair  naturally  curling, 
her  eyes  flashing  with  carbuncle's  glow,  her  fair,  golden 
neck,  her  coral  lips,  her  Cinderella  foot  and  her  limbs 

269 


ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

divine,  and  what  the  shadow  hides  and  what  may  be 
guessed,  —  in  her  own  self  she  more  than  a  seraglio 
well  was  worth. 

cm 

The  curtains  have  closed  again,  —  Frantic  laugh, 
shrieks  of  voluptuousness,  ecstatic  moans,  long-drawn 
sighs,  sobs  and  tears,  —  Idolo  del  mio  cor !  Anima  mia ! 
my  angel,  my  life  !  and  all  the  words  in  that  language 
strange  which  love  delirious  invents  in  its  heat,  these 
were  the  sounds  one  heard.  —  Wrecked  was  the  alcove ; 
the  bed  creaked  and  groaned ;  pleasure  a  very  rage 
became.  Showers  of  kisses  and  storm  of  movements 
lascivious ;  arms  round  bodies  grappling  and  clutching  j 
eyes  flaming,  teeth  meeting  and  biting,  breasts  that 
convulsive  bound. 

CIV 

The  lamp  flared  up,  and  in  the  alcove's  depths  flashed, 
lightning-like,  a  red  and  tawny  light.  'T  was  but  for 
an  instant,  yet  Albertus  saw  Veronica,  her  skin  by 
burning  marks  all  rayed,  pale  as  though  dead,  and  so 
disfigured  that  he  shuddered  at  the  sight.  Then  all 
once  more  dark  became.  The  witch  her  lips  to  the 
young  cavalier's  glued  again,  and  anew  the  couch  bent 

270 


SELECTED    POEMS 

and  creaked  under  love's  bounds,  —  Midnight  struck. 
—  The  sound  mingled  its  shrill  falsetto  with  the  low 
lashing  of  the  rain  upon  the  window  pane,  and  in  the 
near-by  tower  hooted  the  owl. 

CV 

Suddenly,  within  his  very  grasp,  —  a  prodigy  fit 
to  confound  the  strongest  brain,  —  Albertus  felt  the 
charms  of  the  fair  melt  away,  and  vanish  the  very  flesh. 
Broken  was  the  prism.  It  was  no  longer  the  woman 
whom  all  adored,  but  a  foul  hag  with  great  green  eyes 
rolling  under  eyebrows  thick,  and,  to  seize  her  prey,  at 
full  length  stretching  her  long,  thin  arms,  like  hooks. 
Satan  himself  would  have  drawn  back.  A  few  white 
hairs  hung  stiff  down  her  skinny  neck ;  her  bones 
showed  plain  under  withered  breasts,  and  her  ribs  stuck 
out  of  her  sides  so  foul. 

CVI 

When  he  beheld  himself  so  close  to  this  living  death, 
with  terror  the  blood  in  his  veins  ran  cold.  His  hair 
upon  his  head  did  stand,  and  his  teeth  chattered  as 
though  they  would  break.  Meanwhile,  the  hideous 
skeleton  her  blue  lips  to  his  cheek  pressing,  everywhere 

271 


XX  X  X  X  X  db  9r  X  V  xxvdb  vvvabxtfedr  X  vx 

ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

with  strident  laugh  pursued  him.  Within  the  shadow 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed  climbed  shapes  most  strange. 
Incubus,  nightmares,  ghastly,  deformed  spectres,  deathly 
multitude  of  Goya's  brains !  Horned  snails  issued 
from  beneath  the  bricks  and  silvered  the  old  walls  with 
phosphorescent  slime ;  the  lamp  smoked  and  sputtered. 

CVII 

Instead  of  the  gilded  bedstead,  a  filthy  couch ;  in 
place  of  the  boudoir  rose  a  little  room  of  aspect 
wretched,  with  an  old  window  frame  of  panes  badly 
cracked  ;  the  walls,  green  with  damp,  were  wet  with 
rain,  the  great  drops  falling  upon  the  grimy  floor. 
Juan,  a  cat  again,  cast  innumerable  sparks,  and  fas- 
cinated Albertus  with  the  gleam  of  his  glance,  and 
like  the  dog  in  Faust,  waving  around  him  magic  bands, 
traced  a  brilliant  circlet  with  his  tail  upon  the  hearth, 
upon  which  flickered  a  blue  flame. 

CVIII 

Hop !  Hop  !  cried  the  old  woman ;  and  down  the 
chimney,  suddenly  ablaze  with  golden  fires,  two  broom- 
sticks, bridled  and  saddled,  entered  the  room,  in  every 
direction  kicking,  caracoling,  prancing,  rolling,  and  leap- 

272 


SELECTED    POEMS 

ing  as  do  horses  by  their  master  called.  —  "  These  be  my 
English  mare  and  my  Arab  steed,"  said  the  witch, 
opening  her  crablike  hands  and  patting  on  the  neck  the 
broomsticks  both.  —  A  swollen  toad  with  long  slender 
paws  the  stirrup  held.  —  Housch  !  housch !  like  grass- 
hoppers swift  the  two  broomsticks  their  flight  do  take. 

CIX 

Trap !  trap !  they  go  as  goes  the  north  wind.  'Neath 
them  the  earth  shadows  pass  in  long,  grey  lixies ;  above, 
the  cloudy  sky  hurries  by  ;  on  the  dim  horizon  strange 
shadows  pass.  The  mill  turns  around  and  pirouettes. 
The  moon,  now  full,  shows  her  light  like  lantern  dim ; 
a  curious  donjon  underneath  gazes;  a  tree  its  black 
limbs  outstretches  far;  a  gibbet  haggard  shakes  its 
fists  and  follows,  its  corpses  bearing;  a  crow,  croaking 
as  it  scents  the  dead,  flaps  heavily  through  the  air,  and 
with  its  wing  strikes  the  brow  of  the  young  man 
dazed. 

CX 

Bats  and  owls,  orfreys  and  vultures  bald,  great  owls 
and  birds  of  night  with  dun,  flaming  ^es ;  monsters 
of  all  kinds  yet  unknown,  strygx  with  hooked  beaks, 
ghouls,     larvae,    harpies,    vampires,  and    wcre-wolvcs. 

It  273 


ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

impious  spectres,  mammoths  and  leviathans,  crocodiles 
and  boas,  growling  and  snarling,  hissing,  laughing  and 
chattering,  swarming  and  gleaming,  flying,  crawling, 
leaping,  till  the  ground  is  covered  and  darkened  the  air. 
—  Less  swift  is  the  speed  of  the  breathless  brooms, 
and  with  her  gnarled  fingers  the  bridle  drawing, 
"  This  is  the  place,"  the  old  hag  cried. 

CXI 

The  place  was  lighted  by  a  flame,  a  blue  light  cast- 
ing like  that  of  blazing  punch.  It  was  an  open  spot 
within  the  forest's  depth.  Wizards  in  their  gowns  and 
witches  nude  astride  upon  their  goats  adown  the  four 
avenues  from  the  four  corners  of  the  world  arrived  at 
once.  Investigators  into  sciences  occult,  Fausts  of 
every  land,  magi  of  every  rite,  dark-faced  gypsies,  and 
rabbis  red- haired,  cabalists,  diviners,  hermeceutists 
black  as  ink  and  asthmatically  gasping,  —  not  one  of 
them  all  failed  at  the  meeting-place. 

CXII 

Skeletons  preserved  in  dissecting  rooms,  stuflFed  ani- 
mals, monsters,  greenish  foeti,  yet  dripping  all  from 
their    spirit    bath,    cripples    and    lamesters   on    slugs 

274 


SELECTED    POEMS 

mounted  ;  man  hanged  to  death  with  protruding  tongue 
grimacing;  pale  faces  beheaded,  with  red-circled  neck, 
with  one  hand  staying  their  tottering  heads;  every 
creature  ever  put  to  death  (a  dreadful  blood-stained 
crowd)  ;  handless  parricides  in  black  veils  shrouded ; 
heretics  grouped  in  tunics  sulphurous ;  wretches  on  the 
wheel  broken,  contused  and  blue ;  drowned  ones  with 
marbled  flesh  —  a  sight  most  dismal  to  behold  ! 

CXIII 

The  president  in  great  black  chair  seated,  with 
taloned  fingers  the  leaves  of  his  book  turning,  was  busy 
backward  spelling  God's  sacred  names.  The  light 
that  gleamed  from  his  orbs  of  green  the  book  illumined, 
and  on  the  open  page  made  the  words  flash  out  in  lines 
of  fire.  They  were  waiting  for  the  Master  ere  the  fun 
began.  All  were  growing  impatient.  He  was  slow 
in  coming,  and  to  the  evocations  seemed  a  deaf  ear  to 
turn.  Albertus  fancied  he  saw  a  tail,  a  pair  of  horns, 
goat's  feet,  great  round  eyes  in  lustre  lacking,  —  an 
apparition  horrid. 

CXIV 

At  last  he  came ;  but  no  devil  of  sulphur  stinking 
and  of  aspect  terrific ;  no  devil  old-fashioned,  but  the 

275 


dkdbdbdbi:dbdb:l;:i::lrdbir:l;dbdbdbtl;dbti;dbttdbdkdb 

ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

dandiest  of  fiends,  wearing  imperial  and  slight  moustache, 
twirling  his  cane  as  well  as  could  have  done  a  Boule- 
vard swell.  You  could  have  sworn  he  'd  just  come 
from  a  performance  of  "  Robert  the  Devil,"  or  "  The 
Temptation,"  or  had  been  attending  some  assembly 
fashionable.  He  limped  like  Byron  (but  not  worse 
than  he),  and  with  his  haughty  mien,  his  aristocratic 
looks,  and  his  exquisite  talent  tying  for  his  cravat, 
in  every  drawing-room  a  sensation  he  would  have 
made. 

CXV 

This  dandy  Beelzebub  made  a  sign,  and  the  company 
drew  together  the  concert  to  hear.  Neither  Ludwig 
Beethoven,  nor  Gluck,  nor  Meyerbeer,  nor  Theodore 
Hoffmann,  Hoffmann  the  fantastic,  nor  stout  Rossini,  of 
music  king,  nor  Chevalier  Karl  Maria  von  Weber, 
could  surely  with  all  their  genius  have  invented  and 
written  the  wondrous  symphony  which  these  black 
dilettanti  played  at  first.  Boucher  and  Beriot,  Paganini 
himself  could  not  have  embroidered  a  stranger  theme 
with  more  brilliant  pizzicati. 


276 


SELECTED    POEMS 

CXVI 

Virtuosi  with  their  dried,  thin  fingers  made  the  strings 
of  the  Stradivarii  sing  again.  Souls  seemed  to  sound  in 
the  voices  of  the  grave ;  cavernous  gongs  like  thunder 
rumbled  ;  a  jolly  sprite,  his  round  face  swelling  funnily, 
blew  in  two  horns  at  once ;  here,  one  strikes  on  a  bone ; 
the  other,  for  a  lark  takes  his  belly  for  a  drum,  two 
bones  for  sticks;  four  little  demons  with  iron  bows 
make  four  giant  double-basses  roar  and  moan ;  while  a 
stout  soprano  opes  wide  his  gaping  jaws.  The  result : 
a  hellish  row. 

CXVII 

The  concert  finished,  began  the  dances.  Hands 
with  hands  the  chains  did  form.  Within  the  great 
black  chair  the  devil  seated  himself  and  the  signal 
gave.  —  Hurrah  !  hurrah !  The  crowd,  spurning  the 
ground,  howling  and  mad,  dashed  along  like  bridleless 
steed.  The  heavens,  the  sight  to  shun,  closed  their 
starry  eyes,  and  the  moon,  in  cloudlets  twain  her  face 
now  veiling,  with  fear  from  the  horizon  fled.  Terri- 
fied the  waters  stayed,  and  the  echoes'  selves  silent 
became,  dreading  the  blasphemies  to  repeat  which  on 
that  night  they  heard. 

277 


ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

CXVIII 

It  was  as  though  there  whirled,  aflame,  through  the 
dark,  the  monstrous  signs  of  a  zodiac  sombre.  The 
heavy  hippopotamus,  four-footed  FalstafF,  awkward  rose 
upon  its  massive  legs  and  broke  out  in  lascivious  gam- 
badoes. The  crippled,  truncated  and  lame,  leaped  like 
toads,  and  the  goats,  livelier,  performed  entrechats  and, 
graceful,  kicked ;  a  death's-head,  with  long,  lean  legs, 
trotted  along  like  spider  huge ;  in  every  corner  swarmed 
some  hideous  thing;  worms  slimed  over  the  trodden 
ground. 

CXIX 

Loose  in  the  wind  their  hair,  their  cheeks  aflame,  the 
women  twisted  their  bodies  nude  into  postures  infamous, 
whereat  Aretino's  self  would  have  blushed.  Hot  kisses 
marked  the  bruised  breasts  and  shoulders  white ;  black 
hairy  fingers  touched  the  hips ;  sounds  of  lustful  embrace 
over  all  arose ;  eyes  flashed  with  electric  glance ;  lips 
burned  in  lascivious  pressure;  fierce  laughter,  shrieks, 
guttural  sounds  rose  in  the  air.  Never  did  Sodom, 
never  did  Gomorrah  loathsome  darken  the  sky  and  soil 
this  earth  with  more  hideous  unions  foul. 


278 


SELECTED    POEMS 

CXX 

The  devil  sneezed.  To  fashionable  nostrils  the 
odour  of  the  company  unbearable  was.  "  God  bless 
you,"  said  Albertus  politely.  Scarce  had  he  uttered 
that  sacred  name  when  phantoms,  wizards  and  witches, 
sprites  and  gnomes,  as  by  enchantment,  into  thin  air 
vanished.  With  terror  he  felt  sharp  claws,  fierce  teeth 
strike  at  his  flesh,  from  him  torn.  He  shrieked,  but  his 
cry  by  none  was  heard.  —  On  that  morn,  near  Rome, 
peasants  found  upon  the  Appian  Way  the  body  of 
a  man  stone  dead,  his  back  broken,  his  neck  twisted. 

CXXI 

Happy  as  a  boy  who  has  finished  his  task  at  last  I  've 
got  to  the  end  of  my  poem  so  moral.  —  Are  you  as  glad 
as  I  am,  reader  dear  ?  In  vain  for  two  months  past  to 
bring  this  volume  to  a  close  my  hand  upon  the  sheet 
the  pen  did  screeching  drive ;  the  unwilling  theme 
but  slowly  went  j  the  stanzas,  lazily  rocking  on  their 
golden  wings,  together  came  like  swarm  of  bees,  or  else 
disorderly  by  the  wayside  idly  fluttered.  The  num- 
bers grew,  one  sheet  upon  another,  —  the  ink  undried 
still,  —  was  laid,  and  I,  all  courage  losing,  to  myself 

279 


ALBERTUS,  OR  THE  SOUL  AND  SIN 

kept   repeating  :    "  To-morrow,   to-morrow  't  will   be 
done." 

CXXII 
This  Homeric  poem,  in  the  world  unequalled,  pre- 
sents a  wondrous  allegory  profound.  But  if  you  the 
marrow  wish,  the  bone  you  must  break ;  to  enjoy  the 
scent  the  vase  must  needs  be  oped ;  the  curtain  be 
drawn  from  the  painting  it  hides  ;  and  when  the  ball  is 
done  the  domino's  mask  be  cast  away.  I  could  have 
explained  clearly  every  part,  and  to  each  word  attached 
some  learned  gloss.  But  I  take  it,  reader  gentle,  you  've 
brains  enough  to  follow  me.  So,  good-night.  Close 
the  door.  Give  me  the  tongs,  and  tell  my  man  to  bring 
me  a  volume  of  Pantagruel. 


280 


The    Comedy    of  Death 


THE     COMEDT 
OF      DEATH 

LIFE    IN    DEATH 


I 

*TwAS  All  Saints'  Day.  A  drizzle  cold  along  the 
horizon's  gloom  like  a  thick  woof  spread  its  network 
gray ;  cold  the  north  wind  blew ;  scattered  russet 
leaves  fell  fluttering  from  the  branches  bare  of  the 
stunted  elms. 

And  each  and  all  went  into  the  cemetery  vast  and 
lone  to  kneel  by  the  stone  placed  over  the  dead ;  there 
to  pray  to  Almighty  God  for  the  rest  of  their  souls, 
and  with  fresh  flowers  tearfully  to  replace  the  pale 
immortelles  and  withered  wreaths. 

I,  who  knew  not  the  bitter  grief  of  having  buried 

either  my  mother  or  my  sire  under  the  withered  turf, 

at  chance  I  walked  gazing  at  the  tombs,  or,  through 

__ 


THE    COMEDY    OF    DEATH 

an  opening  between  the  branches  of  the  trees,  at  the 
cky's  swelling  domes. 

And  as  I  noted  many  a  leafless  cross,  many  a  grave 
on  which  the  grass  grew  tall,  where  none  to  pray  knelt 
down,  with  pity  I  was  filled  ;  with  pity  great,  for  the 
poor  forsaken  tombs  which  none  on  earth  within  his 
heart  did    bear. 

No  trace  of  green  upon  these  slabs;  and  yet  the 
names  of  widows  desolate,  or  husbands  in  despair,  their 
falsehood  bare  displayed  to  every  passer's  eye,  with 
ne'er  a  trace  of  moss  to  veil  their  huge  letters  black. 

And,  as  I  gazed,  within  my  heart  uprose  a  thought 
which  ever  since  has  my  soul  possessed.  Suppose  it 
were  true  that  the  dead  raging  within  their  biers  do 
twist  about  their  knotty  arms  and  strive  to  throw  off 
their  covers  of  stone  with  efforts  incredible  ? 

Perchance  the  tomb  no  refuge  is  where  on  pillow 
hard  man  may  in  peace  at  last  forever  sleep,  forgetful 
of  all  worldly  things,  pleasure  nor  pain  feeling,  remem- 
bering not  being   or  having  been. 

Perchance  for  sleep  there  is  no  desire;  and  when 

the  rain  filters  downward  to  thfe  corpse  come  the  cold, 

__ 


SELECTED    POEMS 

the  weariness,  and  the  lonesomeness  of  the  grave. 
Oh !  how  sadly  one  must  dream  within  that  place, 
where  neither  moan  nor  breath  can  move  the  shroud's 
long,  stiff  folds ! 

Perchance,  alive  to  the  passions  in  us  that  once  did 
blaze,  the  ashes  of  our  hearts  still  feel  and  move 
within  the  tomb,  and  some  remembrance  of  this  world 
within  the  next  bears  with  it  a  remnant  of  a  life  of 
yore  with  ours  mingled. 

These  lonesome  dead  !  No  doubt  they  wives  did 
have,  some  one  both  near  and  dear ;  some  one  to 
whom  their  thoughts  they  told.  But,  oh  !  the  horror 
of  their  grief  if  ever  they  did  awake  within  the 
depths  of  their  tomb  on  which  never  a  tear  nor  a  flower 
doth  fall ! 

To  feel  that  one  has  passed  away  without  leaving 
more  trace  than  does  the  ship's  wake  on  ocean's  face  ; 
that  one  is  dead  to  all ;  to  see  that  the  best  beloved 
have  one  so  soon  forgot  -,  and  that  the  weeping  willow 
with  its  long,  bending  boughs  alone  over  one's  grave 
mourns. 

At  least  if  one  could,  when  the  pale,  wan  moon 
opes  its  calm  eyes  with  silvery  glance,  and  earthward 


:b  db  :lr :!:  tl:  4:  db :!:  db  tt  4r  tfc :!:  tir  tfc  tir  tfc  dr  4:  tfc  ^  Hb  db  sfe 

THE    COMEDY    OF    DEATH 

looks  and  casts  a  bluish  light,  —  if  one  could,  within 
the  cemetery's  range,  between  the  white  tombs,  the 
will  o'  the  wisp  o'er  the  grass  flitting,  under  the 
branches  stroll  a  while  at  least ! 

If  one  could  home  return  within  the  house,  the 
stage  of  the  former  life,  and,  chilled,  by  the  fireside 
within  the  arm-chair  sit ;  glance  the  old  books  over ; 
within  the  desk  rummage  until  the  time  when  dawn 
the  window  lighting  drove  one  back  to  coffin  cold. 

But  no.  Upon  the  mortuary  bed  one  must  remain, 
with  covering  none  but  the  sheeted  shroud ;  no  sound 
the  silence  breaking  save  crawl  of  worm  that  slowly 
drags  towards  its  prey,  cutting  its  secret  mine;  no 
sight  but  night. 

Then,  if  they  be  jealous,  the  dead,  all  that  Dante 
has  told  of  torments  in  his  burning  spiral  would  pleas- 
ant be  to  that  they  suffer.  Lovers,  who  know  what 
jealousy  is,  what  tortures  that  frenzy  means,  imagine 
a  jealous  corpse ! 

Powerless  and  wroth !      He  is  there,  in  his  grave, 

while  she,  who  was  loved  with  heart's  deep  love,  false 

to  the  oaths  she  swore,  now  in   another's   arms  repeats 

__ 


XXX  tib  X  db  db  V  X  xxxxdbtcxxxxxx  dbd^ 

SELECTED    I^O  E  M  S 

what  she  blushing  whispered,  when  nestling  close,  with 
sacred  words. 

And  to  be  unable  to  come,  on  a  December  night, 
while  she  is  dancing,  to  cower  in  her  room,  and  when 
she 's  back,  and  slowly,  smilingly,  before  the  glass  her 
dress  undoes,  to  show  within  the  mirror's  depths  one's 
skeleton  and  bared  ribs. 

To  laugh  hideously  with  toothless  laugh ;  to  mark 
with  cold  kisses  her  heaving  breast;  and  clutching 
her  white  and  rosy  hand  with  bony  fingers,  to  moan 
these  words,  with  hollow  voice  that  human  no  longer 
is:  — 

"  Woman,  you  made  me  promises  numberless. 
Have  you  forgot  them  all  ?  I,  in  my  sombre  grave,  — 
I  remember  still.  You  told  me,  at  the  hour  when 
death  came  to  me,  that  soon  you  would  follow. 
Weary  of  waiting,  now  am  I  here  to  fetch  you ! " 

Within  my  mind's  depths  a  strange  thought,  cancer- 
like gnaws  and  wears  me  out.  Mine  eyes  sunken 
become ;  upon  my  brow  are  wrinkles  new ;  my  hair, 
my  very  flesh,  from  off  my  temples  drop,  —  for  hideous 

is  the  thought. 

_ 


THE    COMEDY    OF    DEATH 

For  death  no  longer,  then,  the  great  Consoler  is. 
Man,  even  in  the  tomb,  'gainst  fate  has  no  recourse, 
and  one  may  no  longer  cease  to  grieve  for  life  by 
caressing  the  blessed  hope  of  calm  and  peace  after  the 
storm  and  stress  of  life. 


288 


SELECTED    POEMS 

II 

Within  my  brain  these  thoughts  revolving,  thought- 
ful I  stood,^with  deep-bowed  head  against  a  tombstone 
leaning.  Brand-new  it  was,  and  on  the  white  marble 
shoulder  of  the  weeping  figure  the  willow's  long 
branches  like  a  cloak  did  fall. 

The  north  wind  leaf  by  leaf  stripped  the  wreath, 
the  remnants  of  which  on  the  column's  top  did  lie. 
They  seemed  like  tears  which  their  flowers  shed  upon 
the  maid  in  life's  springtime  removed ;  a  gentle  morn- 
ing bloom  withered  before  noon. 

The  crescent  moon  betwixt  the  yews  did  shine; 
great  black  clouds  the  wan  sky  crossed  and  drove  still 
on ;  the  will  o'  the  wisps  flashed  around  the  graves, 
and  the  weeping  willow  its  plumes  did  shake. 

Plain  in  the  night  sounds  I  heard  from  the  nether 
world  arising !  Moans  of  terror  and  agony  deep ; 
voices  entreating  new  flowers  upon  their  tombs ;  ask- 
ing how  went  the  world,  and  why  the  widows  left 
behind  so  long  delayed  them  to  join. 

19  289 


THE    COMEDY    OF    DEATH 

Suddenly  —  scarce  could  I  credit  my  own  ears,  — 
from  under  the  gaping  marble,  oh,  terror !  oh,  wonder ! 
I  heard  the  sound  of  speech.  A  dialogue  it  was,  and 
from  the  depths  of  the  grave  sharp,  shrill  tones  mingled 
with  another  voice. 

Chilled  with  fear  I  was.  With  terror  my  teeth 
chattered ;  my  trembling  limbs  almost  gave  way,  for 
I  understood  the  worm  with  the  dead  girl,  of  a  sudden 
awaked  upon  this  winter  night  within  her  icy  cage, 
its  hymen  was  celebrating. 

The  Dead  Girl 
Is  this  an  illusion  ?  Has  the  night  so  long  dreamed 
of,  the  wedding  night,  come  at  last  ?  Is  this  my 
nuptial  bed  ?  Surely  this  the  hour  when  the  groom, 
young  and  scented,  enjoys  the  beauty  of  the  bride  and 
from  her  brows  removes  the  maiden  orange-flower. 

The  Worm 
A  long,  long  night  't  will  be,  O  fair  dead  girl ! 
To  me  for  ever  Death  hath  thee  betrothed.  Thy  bed 
is  but  the  tomb.  Now  is  the  time  when  bays  the 
watch-dog  at  the  moon ;  when  the  foul  vampire  sails 
forth  in  search  of  prey  j  when  downward  swoops  the 
crow. 

290 


xxxxx  xdbxxxxxxtirxxxsbxvvsx 

SELECTED    POEMS 

The  Dead  Girl 
Oh  !  beloved,  quickly  come ;  long  since  the  hour  is 
passed.  Oh  !  draw  me  to  thy  heart,  within  thine  arms 
close  pressed,  for  cold  I  am  and  full  of  dreadful  fears. 
Warm  with  thy  kisses  my  mouth  which  icy  feels. 
Oh  !  come  to  my  side ;  and  room  I  '11  make  for  thee, 
though  narrow  is  our  couch. 

The  Worm 
Five  feet  in  length  by  two  in  width ;  the  size  was 
ta'en  with  care.  The  couch  too  hard  is ;  the  groom 
will  never  come.  Thy  cries  he  hears  not ;  at  a  feast 
he  is.  Come,  upon  thy  pillow  quietly  lay  thy  head  and 
cross  thine  arms  again. 

The  Dead  Girl 

What  is  the  damp  and  breathless  kiss  I  feel  ?  That 
lipless  mouth,  is  it  a  human  one  ?  Is  this  a  living 
kiss  ?  Oh,  wonder !  none  to  right  or  left  of  me  ! 
With  horror  my  bones  do  quake ;  my  whole  flesh 
quivers  as  quakes  the  aspen  when  blows  the  wind. 

The  Worm 
Mine  is  the  kiss  ;  the  earth-worm  I,  here  to  fulfil 
the  solemn   mystery.     Possession  now   I   take.     Thy 

291 


THE    COMEDY    OF    DEATH 

husband  I  've  become,  and  faithful  sure  will  be.  The 
gladsome  owl,  with  strong  wing  the  air  beating,  sings 
our  wedding  song. 

The  Dead  Girl 
Oh  !  if  only  some  one  by  the  cemetery  would  pass  ! 
In  vain  I  strike  my  brow  against  the  coffinboards  ;  the 
lid  too  heavy  is.  Sounder  than  the  dead  he  buries  deep 
the  grave-digger  sleeps.  The  silence  is  profound ;  de- 
serted is  the  road,  and  echo's  self  to  my  cries  is  deaf! 

The  Worm 
Mine  are  thine  ivory  arms  ;  mine  thy  fair  white 
breasts ;  mine  thy  polished  waist  and  glorious  hips 
luxuriant  swelling ;  mine  thy  little  feet ;  thy  hands  so 
soft ;  thy  lips,  and  that  first  kiss  which  thy  maidenly 
shame  to  love  refused. 

The  Dead  Girl 
'T  is  over !  'T  is  over  !  The  worm  is  here.  Its 
bite  makes  in  my  side  a  deep,  broad  wound  ;  my  heart 
it  gnaws.  Oh,  torture  !  Qh,  my  God  !  the  cruel 
pain!  Mother,  sister  mine,  why  come  you  not  unto 
my  call  ? 


292 


SELECTED    POEMS 

The  Worm 
Within  their  hearts  the  thought  of  thee  even  now  is 
gone ;  and  yet  upon  thy  grave,  poor  deserted  one,  the 
orange  flowers  still  brilliant  are.  The  funeral  pall 
scarce  folded  is,  yet  like  yester's  dream  they  have 
forgot  —  forgot  thee  and  for  ever. 

The  Dead  Girl 
Grass  faster  grows  within  the  heart  than  even  on  the 
grave,  and  soon  the  cross  and  lowly  mound  alone  recall 
the  presence  of  the  dead.  But  where  the  cross  that 
tells  of  tomb  within  the  soul  ?  Forgetfulness,  second 
death,  annihilation  which  I  seek,  come  unto  me !  I 
call  for  you. 

The  Worm 
Be  now  consoled,  for  Death  gives  Life.  Upspring- 
ing  under  the  shadow  of  the  cross  the  eglantine  more 
rosy  is,  more  green  the  sward.  The  flower's  roots 
within  thy  frame  shall  plunge,  and  where  thou  sleepest, 
tall  shall  wave  the  grass ;  for  in  God's  hands  is  nothing 
lost. 

One  of  the  dead  their  speech  had  wakened  for  silence 
called.     Lightning,  not  from  heaven,  but  from  earth, 

293 


THE    COMEDY    OF    DEATH 

showed  me  within  their  tombs  all  the  dead ;  skeletons 
of  bodies  with  yellowed  bones,  or  purplish  flesh  in 
tatters  falling  away. 

Both  young  and  old  the  graveyard's  inhabitants,  poor 
forgotten  dead,  hearing  upon  their  tombs  but  the  roar 
of  the  gale,  and  to  weariness  a  prey  within  their 
dwelling  cold,  sought  with  sightless  eyes  to  read  the 
hour  upon  Eternity's  mighty  dial. 

Then  all  to  darkness  turned,  and  on  my  way  I  went, 
pale  at  having  seen  so  much;  with  doubt  and  horror 
filled ;  weary  in  mind  and  body  both.  And,  ever 
following  me,  countless  cracked  bells  like  the  voices 
of  the  dead  swung  out  to  me  the  moans  they  tolled. 


294 


SELECTED    POEMS 

III 

To  my  home  I  returned. — Gloomy  thoughts  swarmed 
and  swept  before  mine  eyes,  with  icy-cold  wings  my 
brow  touching,  just  as  at  eventide  around  cathedral 
spire  the  flocks  of  crows  their  spirals  wind,  and  circle 
ever  round. 

Within  my  room,  where  quivered  a  yellow  light,  all 
things  assumed  forms  horrible  and  weird,  and  aspects 
passing  strange.  My  bed  a  coffin  seemed  ;  my  lamp  a 
funeral  light ;  my  cloak  outspread  the  darksome  pall, 
with  holy  water  oft  bestrewed  within  the  doorway  while 
a  prayer  is  breathed. 

Within  its  frame  enclosed  the  ivory  Christ,  nailed 
with  outstretched  arms  upon  the  sombre  stuff,  more 
pallid  still  became,  and  as  on  Golgotha  in  last  keen 
agony,  the  muscles  on  the  yellowed  face  stood  out  in 
anguish  writhing. 

All  the  paintings,  their  faded  hues  illumed  by  the 
hearth-fire's  gleam,  strange  tones  assumed,  and  with 
inquisitive  air,  like  spectators  within  stage-box  seated, 

295 


XXX  XX  xxxxxxxxxxxxxdbxx  vxdb 

THE    COMEDY    OF    DEATH 

all  the  smoky  old  portraits,  and  dull-toned  pastels  their 
eyes  now  opened  wide. 

A  death's-head,  from  the  skull  well  cast,  white  stood      % 
out,  grimacing,  garish  under  a  bluish  beam.      I  saw  it 
to  the  bracket's  edge  advance  ;  the  jaws  seemed  striving 
speech  to  use,  the  eyes  to  light  with  glance. 

From  the  dark  orbs  (where  were  no  orbs)  flashed 
sudden  sparklings  dun,  as  from  a  living  eye.  A  breath 
came  forth  from  'twixt  its  shaking  teeth.  'T  was 
not  the  wind,  for  straight  the  folds  of  curtains  by  the 
window  felL 

Then,  like  the  voice  one  hears  in  dreams,  sad  as  the 
moan  of  waves  upon  the  shore,  I  heard  a  voice ;  and 
as  that  day  so  many  things  I  'd  seen  —  so  many  effects 
marvellous  of  unknown  cause  —  my  dread  was  less 
this  time :  — 

Raphael 

I  am  Raphael  Sanzio,  the  mighty  Master.  Oh  I 
brother,  tell  me,  can  you  my  features  know  in  this 
hideous  skull  ?  For  there  is  nothing  'mid  the  casts  and 
masks  —  these  shining  skulls  polished  like  helms  of 
steel  —  that  makes   me  different  from  them  all. 

296 


SELECTED    POEMS 

And  yet,  't  is  I,  't  is  I,  indeed  :  the  youth  divine, 
the  angel  of  beauty  and  the  light  of  Rome,  —  Raphael 
of  Urbino,  —  the  brown-haired  lad  you  see  in  museums, 
idly  leaning,  dreaming,  resting  his  head  upon  his 
hand. 

Oh  !  my  Fornarina,  my  fair  beloved  !  who  took  with 
a  kiss  my  soul  in  ecstasy  to  heaven  ascending.  This, 
then,  is  your  lover  —  the  handsome  angel-named  painter 
—  this  head  with  its  strange  grimace.  Well,  't  is 
Raphael ! 

If  e'er,  asleep  within  the  chapel's  depth,  she  were  to 
wake  and  come  when  calls  my  voice,  with  fear  she  filled 
would  be.  Nay,  let  the  half-raised  stone  upon  her 
head  fall  again.  Oh  !  come  not,  come  not !  but  keep 
within  your  tomb  the  dream  within  your  heart. 

Accursed  analysers !  Race  most  vile !  Hyenas 
that  track  the  funeral  step  by  step  the  body  to  dig  up  ! 
When  will  you  be  done  breaking  open  biers  to  measure 
our  bones  and  our  dust  to  weigh  ?  Let  the  dead  sleep 
in  peace. 

My  masters !  Do  you  know  —  but  who  could 
have  told  you  ?  —  what  one  feels  when  the  saw's  teeth 

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THE    COMEDY    OF    DEATH 

tear  our  palpitating  heart  ?  Do  you  know  whether 
death  is  not  another  life  ?  And  if,  when  their  remains 
from  the  tomb  are  dragged,  the  dead  are  satisfiA  ? 

So  you  come  to  search  with  hands  profane  our  tombs 
which  you  violate,  and  to  steal  our  skulls  !  How  bold 
you  are !  Do  you  never  fear  that  some  day,  pale  and 
wan,  the  dead  may  rise  and  curse  you  there  just  as  I 
curse  you  ? 

So  you  fancy  that  in  the  rottenness  you  shall  sur- 
prise the  secrets  of  mother  Nature  and  the  work  of 
God  ?  It  is  not  by  the  body  the  soul  can  be  learned ; 
the  body  but  an  altar  is  ;  genius  is  the  flame  ;  and  you 
the  fire  put  out. 

Oh  !  Child  Christs  of  mine  !  Oh  !  my  dark-haired 
Madonnas  !  Oh !  you  who  owe  to  me  your  fairest 
crowns,  saints  in  Paradise  !  The  learned  cast  my  skull 
upon  the  ground,  and  you  suffer  it,  nor  hurl  thunder- 
bolts at  these  wretches  accurst. 

So  *t  is  true  :  Heaven  its  power  has  lost ;  Christ  is 
dead  indeed  !  The  age  Science  for  its  God  has  ta'en  ; 
for  faith.  Liberty.     Farewell  to  the  perfume  sweet  of 

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SELECTED    POEMS 

the  mystic  rose ;  to  love,  farewell.     Farewell  to  poesy 
of  old  ;  to  sacred  beauty  a  long  farewell. 

In  vain  our  painters,  to  see  how  shaped  it  was, 
within  their  hands  shall  turn  and  turn  my  head  again  ; 
mine,  mine  alone  my  secret  is.  Copy  they  may  my 
tones ;  copy  they  may  the  pose ;  but  two  things  had  I 
that  shall  fail  them  ever,  —  Love  and  Faith. 

Tell  me,  which  of  you,  of  this  age  infamous  the  off- 
spring mean,  can  saintly  render  woman's  adored 
beauty  ?  None,  alas !  not  one.  For  your  boudoirs, 
the  haunts  of  lust,  lascivious  scenes  you  need.  Who 
e'er  glances  at  you,  virgins  mine,  so  draped  ?  Oh  ! 
my  sainted  ones,  no  man. 

The  time  has  come.  Your  task  is  done.  Like  a 
wan  old  man  the  dying  age  bewails  and  struggles  on. 
The  Angel  of  Judgment  to  his  lips  the  trumpet  sets, 
and  the  voice  is  about  to  call :  "Let  justice  be  done; 
mankind  is  dead  !  " 

No  more  I  heard.  Dawn  with  opal  lips,  quite  sleepy 
yet,  upon  the  dullish  window-pane  a  chill  beam  cast, 
and  I  saw  vanish  the  vision  strange  as  vanishes  the 
orfrey,  by  sudden  gleam  startled,  under  a  Gothic  arch. 

299 


THE    COMEDY    OF    DEATH 
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DEATH     IN    LIFE 

IV 

Death  is  multiform  :  its  face,  its  vesture  changes 
oftener  than  actress  lightsome.  Beauteous  it  can  make 
itself,  and  is  not  ever  a  sickening  carcass  that  groans 
toothless  and  makes  grimace  most  hideous  to  behold. 

Its  subjects  do  not  all  within  the  graveyard  dwell ; 
they  sleep  not  all  on  pillows  stony  under  the  shadow 
of  the  vaults  ;  they  wear  not  all  her  pallid  livery ;  not 
upon  all  has  the  gate  been  closed  in  the  gloom  of  the 
grave. 

Dead  there  are  of  kinds  most  various.  To  some 
stench  befalls,  and  corruption,  palpable  nothingness,  hor- 
ror and  disgust,  night  profound  and  dark,  and  the  avid 
bier,  its  jaws  wide  opening  like  gaping  monster. 

Others,  whom  one  sees  unfearful  go  to  and  fro  in 
the  sight  of  the  living  under  their  shroud  of  flesh,  have 
the  invisible  nothingness,  the  inner  death  which  none 

300 


SELECTED    POEMS 

suspects,  which  none  doth  mourn,  not  even  nearest  and 
dearest. 

For  when  one  goes  into  the  cities  of  the  dead  to  visit 
the  tombs  of  the  unknown  or  famous,  the  monuments 
or  the  mounds,  whether  or  not  there  lie  asleep  forever 
under  the  sombre  shadows  of  the  yews  some  friend 
beloved,  —  whether  one  weep  or  not. 

One  says  :  —  Behold,  dead  are  these.  Moss  has 
spread  its  veil  over  their  names  ;  fast  the  worm  its  web 
doth  spin  in  the  sockets  of  their  eyes;  their  hair  has 
made  its  way  through  the  boards  of  their  biers,  and 
their  flesh  in  dust  doth  fall  upon  the  bones  of  their 
forbears. 

At  night  their  heirs  fear  not  they  shall  return  ;  even 
their  dogs  now  scarce  remember  them.  Their  por- 
traits, with  smoke  befogged,  with  dust  thickly  covered 
o'er,  in  shops  are  strown  away ;  those  who  once  envy 
fierce  to  them  did  bear,  their  praises  now  gladly  sing 
—  for  they  are  dead  and  gone  for  good  and  all. 

The  Angel  of  Sorrow  praying  on  their  tomb  alone 
for  them  mourns  with  tears  of  stone,  and  as  the  worm 

301 


THE    COMEDY    OF    DEATH 

their  body  gnaws,  so  gnaws  forgetfulness  their  name 
with  silent  tooth.  For  tester  they  six  feet  of  heavy 
mould  do  own.  Dead  are  they  i  of  the  dead  they 
are. 

Perchance  a  tear,  from  your  heart  escaped,  upon 
their  dust,  snow-strewn,  rain-soaked,  slowly  filters 
down,  which  joy  will  bring  them  in  their  sad  home ; 
and  their  dried  up  hearts,  feeling  they  are  mourned, 
faintly  beat  once  more. 

But  no  one  says,  on  seeing  the  man  who  bears 
death  within  his  soul,  "  Rest  and  peace  be  thine  !  '*  — 
What  to  the  sheath  is  given,  to  the  blade  is  denied. 
The  body  is  wept  for  and  the  wound  is  soothed,  but  the 
soul  may  break  and  die  without  any  feeling  dread  or 
giving  it  a  tomb. 

And  yet  there  is  an  agony  horrible  that  none  can  ever 
guess ;  there  is  grief  incredible  that  eye  can  never  see  ; 
there  is  more  than  one  cross  on  the  Calvary  of  the  soul, 
without  the  golden  halo  ;  without  the  woman  white  ever 
prostrate  below. 

Every  soul  is  a  sepulchre  wherein  things  innumerable 
lie ;  hideous  cadavers  buried  asleep  within  rosy  faces. 

302 


SELECTED    POEMS 

Tears  are  always  found  beneath  the  living  smile ;  the 
dead  behind  the  living  are,  and  truth  to  tell,  mankind 
is  a  cemetery. 

The  unburied  tombs  of  old  cities  dead,  the  halls  and 
wells  of  Hundred-gated  Thebes  not  so  populous  are  ; 
nor  are  there  to  be  seen  skeletons  more  dread,  or  a 
greater  mass  of  bones  and  skulls  with  ruins  mingled. 

Some  there  are  with  no  epitaphs  on  their  tombs,  who 
of  the  dead  as  in  the  catacombs  build  up  a  mighty 
mound ;  whose  hearts  are  but  a  level  field,  where  no 
cross  shows,  nor  memorial  stone,  and  which  blind 
Death  with  divers  dusts  confusedly  doth  fill. 

Others,  less  forgetful,  have  funeral  vaults  wherein 
are  ranged  their  dead,  as  in  the  vaults  of  Ghebers  and 
Egyptians ;  around  their  hearts  their  mummies  stand, 
the  pallid  features  recalling  of  all  their  former  loves. 

Lovingly  embalmed  in  remembrance  pure,  within 
themselves  they  guard  the  soul  they  loved,  —  a  treas- 
ure sad  and  charming  both.  Death  dwells  in  them  in 
the  midst  of  life ;  they  ever  seek  the  dear  soul  lost, 
which  on  them  smileth  still. 

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THE    COMEDY    OF    DEATH 

Where,  if  one  searches,  will  a  skeleton  not  be 
found  ?  What  hearth  is  there  that  every  night  beholds 
the  family  circle  unbroken  yet  ?  Where  is  the  thresh- 
old, smiling  and  fair  though  it  be,  that  has  not  beheld 
the  owner  outward  pass  under  the  black  pall,  never 
again  homeward  to  turn  ? 

The  little  flower  which  joys  now,  offering  its  bloom- 
ing lips  to  kisses  of  the  snow,  the  daughter  is  of  Death. 
Perchance  its  roots  into  the  ground  from  some  loved 
dust  have  caught  the  scent  divine  that  charms  so 
much. 

Oh  !  betrothed  of  yesterday,  that  are  lovers  still, 
the  place  where  nest  your  loves  has  served  like  you 
some  old  man  grim.  Before  your  soft  sighs  had  waked 
Its  echoes  his  death-rattle  it  heard,  and  the  remem- 
brance an  odour  sepulchral  mingles  with  the  sweet 
bridal    perfumes. 

Where  shall  we  tread  and  not  a  tomb  profane  ? 
Even  if  we  had  the  wings  of  the  dove,  were  swift-footed 
like  the  deer,  and  the  waves  traversed  like  the  flashing 
fish,  everywhere  would  be  found  the  hostess,  black  and 
white,  ready  to  receive  us. 


SELECTED    POEMS 

Oh  !  cease  then,  ye  mothers  young,  to  cradle  your 
sons  in  the  arms  of  bright  imaginings ;  cease  to  dream 
of  brilliant  future  for  them.  Spin  them  a  shroud  with 
the  thread  of  their  swaddling-clothes ;  for  your  sons, 
were  they  pure  as  angels  and  fair  as  they,  to  death  are 
all  condemned. 


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THE    COMEDY    OF    DEATH 


Amid  sighs  and  moans  and  groans  let  us  descend  to 
its  very  depths  the  gloomy  spiral  and  all  its  accursed 
turns.  Our  guide  is  no  Vergil,  the  master  poet;  no 
Beatrix  towards  us  her  lovely  head  doth  bend  from 
distant  Paradise. 

For  guide  we  have  a  wan-faced  virgin,  who  never 
was  kissed  by  golden  tan  from  lips  of  sun.  Colourless 
her  cheeks,  bluish  her  lips ;  alabaster  white  the  nipples 
of  her  breasts,  but  rosy  never. 

A  mere  breath  sways  her  delicate  form ;  her  arms, 
more  translucent  than  jasper  or  agate,  languidly  hang  by 
her  side.  From  her  hand  escapes  a  withering  flower, 
and  folded  on  her  back  her  diaphanous  wings  motionless 
remain. 

More  sombre  than  night,  more  staring  than  stone, 
under  her  ebony  brows  and  her  lashes  long  shine  her 
two  great  eyes.  Like  the  waves  of  Lethe,  dark  and 
silent  flowing,  her  loosened  hair  her  ivory  flesh  enfolds 
with  silent  clasp. 

306 


SELECTED    POEMS 

Upon  her  brow,  the  linen  bands  —  chaste  and 
simple  ornament  —  with  hemlock  leaves  and  violets 
are  twined.  For  the  rest  she  is  nude,  and  one  laughs 
and  trembles  on  seeing  her  approach  -,  for  her  look 
sinister  and  alluring  at  the  same  time  is. 

Although  she  has  lain  in  every  bed  on  earth,  under 
her  wreath  of  white  barren  she  still  remains  since 
eternity  began.  The  burning  kiss  dies  out  upon  her 
fatal  lips,  and  of  her  virginity,  the  pallid  rose  has  none 
e'er  plucked. 

She  is  the  one  that  leads  to  tears  and  to  despair ; 
she  is  the  one  who  from  mother's  lap  doth  take  away 
her  burden  sweet  and  dear  ;  she  is  the  one  who  jealous 
lies  between  lovers  twain  and  wills  that  in  her  turn 
she  wedded  be. 

Bitter  she  is,  and  sweet ;  wicked  she  is,  and  good. 
On  each  illustrious  brow  she  sets  a  crown,  fearless 
and  passionless.  Bitter  to  fortunate  ones;  to  the 
wretched  sweet ;  alone  she  brings  to  mighty  grief  its 
consolation. 

She  gives  a  bed  to  those  who,  through  the  world, 
like  Wandering  Jew,  are  walking  night  and  day  and 

307 


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THE    COMEDY    OF    DEATH 

sleep  have  never  known.  To  all  pariahs  she  opes  her 
inn,  and  Phryne  welcomes  as  she  does  the  virgin  ;  foe 
and  friend  as  cordially  receives. 

Following  the  steps  of  this  guide  with  face  impassi- 
ble, onward  we  go  adown  the  spiral  terrible  towards 
the  bourne  unknown,  through  a  living  hell  that  knows 
not  cave  nor  gulf,  nor  burning  pitch,  nor  seas  with 
sulphurous  waves,  nor  great  horned  devil. 

Here  against  a  pane  there  is  a  light  as  of  a  lamp, 
with  the  shadow  of  a  man.  Let  us  the  stairs  ascend, 
draw  near  and  see.  ''  Ah  !  't  is  you.  Dr.  Faustus !  in 
the  same  attitude  as  Rembrandt's  wizard  in  the  sombre 
painting  that  gleams  with  light. 

"What !  have  you  not  broken  your  alchemist's  vials? 
Do  you  still  bend  your  great,  bald,  sad  brow  over  some 
manuscript  old  ?  Do  you  still  seek  within  your  book, 
by  the  light  of  that  sun  mystical,  the  word  cabalistic 
that  makes  the  Spirit  rise  ? 

"  Tell  me,  has  Science,  your  mistress  adored,  to  your 

chaste  desires  yielded  at  last  ?     Or,  as  when  you  first 

_- 


SELECTED    POEMS 

met,  do  you  kiss  of  her  dress  but  the  hem  or  eke  her 
slipper  ?  Is  there  yet  in  your  breast  asthmatic  breath 
enough  for  a  sigh  of  love  ? 

"  What  sand  or  what  coral  has  your  lead  brought  up  ? 
Have  you  sounded  the  depths  of  this  world's  wisdom  ? 
Or  as  you  drew  from  your  well  did  you  in  your  pail 
bring  up  nude,  fair  Truth,  until  now  ignored  ?  If  you 
are  a  tree,  where  then  are  your  fruits  ? " 

Faust 

I  have  plunged  within  the  sea,  under  the  vault  of  the 
waves.  The  great  fishes  cast  their  fleeting  shadows 
down  to  the  water's  depths.  Leviathan  lashed  the 
abyss  with  its  tail,  and  their  lovely  blue  hair  the  sirens 
combed  upon  the  coral  reefs. 

The  hideous  cuttle-fish  and  the  monstrous  polyp 
their  tentacles  all  out-stretched ;  the  shark  and  the  ore 
enormous  their  great  green  eyes  on  me  did  turn ;  but  to 
the  surface  I  came  again,  for  my  breath  failed  me.  A 
heavy  mantle  for  aged  shoulders  is  the  mantle  of  the 
seas. 

309 


THE    COMEDY    OF    DEATH 

From  my  well  limpid  water  alone  have  I  drawn  j  the 
Sphinx,  as  I  question,  still  silent  is.  Pallid  and  broken 
down,  alas  !  I  am  still  at  perhaps  and  /  inow  not,  and 
the  flowers  of  my  brow  are  fallen  like  snow  on  the 
place  where  I  have  passed. 

Oh !  woe  is  me,  that  I,  unguarded,  tasted  the  golden 
apples  of  the  tree  of  Science,  for  Science  is  Death. 
Not  the  upas  of  Java's  isle,  nor  Afric's  euphorbias, 
nor  the  manchineel  that  gives  magnetic  sleep,  a  stronger 
poison  hold. 

In  nothing,  now,  do  I  believe.  And  when  you 
came,  for  very  weariness  my  study  I  was  renouncing 
and  ready  my  furnace  was  to  break.  Within  my 
being  not  a  fibre  now  thrills,  and  like  a  pendulum  my 
heart  alone  doth  beat  with  movement  unchanging. 

Nothingness !  This,  then,  is  what  at  the  end  one 
finds.  As  the  tomb  doth  hold  the  dead,  so  doth  my 
soul  a  living  cadaver  contain.  It  is  to  reach  this  point 
that  I  such  pains  have  taken,  and  that,  profitless,  my 
soul  to  the  winds  I  've  scattered  as  scattered  is  the 
grain. 

310 


SELECTED    POEMS 

A  single  kiss,  oh !  fair  and  gentle  Marguerite, 
snatched  from  thy  blooming  mouth,  so  fresh,  so  small, 
is  better  worth  than  all  of  this.  Seek  not  for  the  Word 
which  in  the  Book  has  never  been,  but  know  how  to 
live,  forget  not  that  you  must  live.  Love,  for  that  is 
all! 


3" 


THE    COMEDY    OF     DEATH 

VI 

The  endless  spiral  within  the  depths  doth  plunge. 
All  around,  waiting  but  for  the  wrong  answer  ere  your 
blood  they  suck,  upon  their  great  pedestals  with  hiero- 
glyphs strewn,  sphinxes  with  pointed  breasts,  with 
fingers  armed  with  claws,  roll  their  glittering  eyes. 

As  one  passes  before  them,  at  each  step  one  stumbles 
on  old  bones,  on  carrion  remains,  on  skulls  that  hollow 
sound.  From  every  hole  there  issue  stiffened  limbs ; 
and  monstrous  apparitions  hideous  flash  through  the 
darksome  air. 

It  is  here  that  Oedipus  the  riddle  yet  must  solve, 
and  that  still  is  awaited  the  beam  that  shall  dispel  the 
darkness  of  eld.  It  is  here  that  Death  its  problem  doth 
propose,  and  that  the  traveller,  her  pallid  face  perceiving, 
draws  back  in  affright. 

Ah  !  how  many  noble  hearts  and  souls  so  great  in 
vain  through  every  poesy  and  every  passion  all  have 
sought  the  answer  to  the  fatal  page.  Their  own  bones 
lie  there  with  no  sepulchral  stone,  with  no  inscription 
carved. 

312 


!lrdlr4r^4r  db  ^^  dlb^llr^^tfcslbsfctfctifctfcdfctfc^tfctfedb 

SELECTED    POEMS 

How  many,  Don  Juans  unknown,  have  filled  their 
lists  and  still  seek  on  !  How  many  lips  turn  pale 
under  kisses  sweetest,  which  have  never  pressed  their 
fancy's  lips  !  How  many  desires  to  heaven  from  earth 
have  returned,  forever  unappeased  ! 

Students  there  are  who  would  all  things  know,  but 
who  for  valet  and  teacher  never  Mephistopheles  find. 
In  attic  rooms  are  Fausts  without  their  Marguerites, 
whom  Hell  repels  and  God  casts  out.  Pity  these, 
oh  !  pity  them  all. 

For  they  suffer,  alas  !  from  ill  incurable,  and  a  tear 
they  mingle  with  every  grain  of  sand  that  Time  lets 
fall.  Their  heart,  like  the  orfrey  within  the  ruins' 
depths,  moans  within  their  weakened  breasts  a  hymn 
to  despair. 

Their  life  is  like  the  woods  when  autumn  ends. 
Every  passing  wind  from  their  crown  doth  strip  the 
last  touch  of  green,  and  their  weeping  dreams  go  silent, 
floating  through  the  clouds  like  flock  of  storks  when 
winter  draweth  nigh. 

Their  torments  never  in  poets'  songs  are  told. 
Martyrs  of  thought,  they  bear  not  round  their  heads 

3'3 


THE    COMEDY    OF    DEATH 

the  shining  aureole  -,  and  on  the  ways  of  earth  they 
lonely  march,  and  on  the  frozen  ground  they  fall  as 
snow  doth   fall   when   in   the   night   it  comes. 

As  on  I  went,  my  thoughts  turning  over,  sad  and 
speechless,  under  the  icy  vault,  along  the  narrow  way, 
stopping  suddenly  my  companion  said,  as  she  stretched 
out  her  hand  so  frail :  — "  Look  whither  my  finger 
points." 

It  was  a  horseman  with  a  waving  plume,  long  curl- 
ing hair  and  black  moustache,  and  spurs  of  gold.  He 
wore  a  mantle,  a  rapier,  and  a  rufF,  like  the  ruiBing 
blades  in  days  of  Louis  Treize,  and  seemed  still  young. 

But  on  looking  close  I  saw  that  his  wig,  under  the 
false  brown  hair  upon  the  neck,  allowed  to  show  the 
whitened  hair.  His  brow  like  face  of  ruffled  sea  was 
wrinkled;  his  cheek  so  hollow  that  all  his  teeth  did 
show. 

In  spite  of  the  thick  rouge  with  which  it  was 
covered,  —  as  marble  is  o'erlaid  with  rosy  gauze,  — 
his  pallor  was  plain  to  see ;  and  through  the  carmine 
his  lips  that  coloured,  under  his  forced  laugh  't  was 
plain  that  every  night  hot  fever  did  him  kiss. 

3H 


SELECTED    POEMS 

His  staring  eyes  seemed  eyes  of  glass  j  they  nothing 
had  of  earthly  look  —  nor  tear,  nor  glance.  Diamonds 
they  were,  set  within  his  gloomy  lids,  and  shone  with 
cold  gleam  and  unchanging  brilliancy.  An  old  man 
in  truth  he  was. 

His  back  was  bowed,  as  bowed  as  arch  of  bridge ; 
his  feet  were  sore  and  swollen  by  the  gout,  his  weight 
able  scarce  to  bear;  his  pale  hands  trembled  as  tremble 
the  waves  under  the  North  wind's  kiss,  and  let  slip  the 
rings  too  big  for  his  fingers  grown. 

All  this  luxury,  all  this  rouge  upon  the  sunken  face 
formed  a  combination  monstrous  both  and  strange,  and 
dark  was  the  sight  and  uglier  yet  than  coffin  in  cour- 
tesan's home  j  than  skeleton  adorned  with  robe  of 
silk;  than   old  hag  in   a  mirror  glancing. 

Entrusting  to  night  his  amorous  plaint  he  stood 
below  a  darkened  pane  beneath  a  lonesome  balcony. 
No  white  brow  against  the  glass  did  press ;  no  sun  of 
beauty  did  its  face  unveil  within  the  open  depth  of 
heaven. 

"  Tell  me,  what  do  you  there,  old  man,  in  the  dark- 
ness ;  on  a  night  when  the  funeral  swarms  fly  forth 


THE    COMEDY    OF    DEATH 

from  out  the  tombs  ?  Pageless  and  without  torch, 
whom  seek  you  so  late,  so  far,  at  the  hour  when  the 
Angel  of  Midnight  in  the  belfry  sings  and  weeps  ? 

"  You  are  no  longer  at  the  age  when  all  smiled  and 
welcomed  you ;  when,  petal  by  petal,  virgins  scattered 
at  your  feet  the  flower  of  their  beauty ;  it  is  no  longer 
for  you  that  windows  are  oped.  You  are  fit  for  naught 
but  by  your  ancestors  to  sleep  under  the  carven  marble 
tomb. 

"  Hear  you  not  the  owl  its  shrill  cry  uttering  ?  Hear 
you  not  in  the  woods  the  great,  hungry  wolves  howl  ? 
Oh  !  foolish  old  man,  return ;  it  is  the  moment  when 
the  moon  wakes  the  pallid  vampire  upon  its  golden 
couch.     Return  to  your  home,  return  ! 

**  The  mocking  wind  your  song  on  its  wing  away 
hath  borne  j  none  to  you  is  listening,  and  adown  your 
mantle  stream  the  tears  of  the  gale."  —  He  answers 
nothing.  —  "  Oh  !  Death,  tell  me  who  this  man  may 
be,  and  know  you  the  name  by  which  he  is  called  ?  " 
—  "  That  man  is  Don  Juan.*' 


316 


SELECTED    POEMS 

VII 

Don  Juan 
Oh  !  happy  youths  whose  heart  scarce  opes  as 
doth  the  violet  to  the  first  breath  of  smiling  spring; 
milk-white  souls  like  maybloom  sweet,  where,  in  the 
welcome  sunshine  and  in  the  silver  rain,  all  warbles  and 
all  blows. 

Oh !  all  ye  who  your  mother's  arms  do  leave  with- 
out knowing  life  and  knowledge  bitter  and  who  seek 
all  things  to  learn,  —  poets  and  dreamers,  more  than 
once,  no  doubt,  on  edge  of  woods,  as  your  road  you 
took  in  sunset's  splendour; 

At  that  lovely  hour  when  on  branches  swaying  the 
white  doves  bill  and  the  bullfinches  nest;  when  weary 
nature  sighs  and  falls  asleep ;  when,  like  a  lyre  when 
the  strain  is  done,  the  leaf  in  the  breeze  quivers ; 

When  calm  and  forgetfulness  on  all  things  fall ; 
when  the  sylph  returns  to  its  pavilion  of  rose  under 
the  perfumes  nestling,  —  moved  by  these  things  and  of 
restless  ardour  full,  you  have  longed  for  my  lists  and 
my  conquests  all.     You  have  envied  me 

.        317 


THE    COMEDY    OF    DEATH 

The  feasts,  and  the  Icisses  on  shoulders  nude,  all  the 
sensuous  pleasures  to  your  age  unknown ;  exquisite 
torments  dear !  Zerlina,  Elvira,  Anna,  the  jealous 
Roman  girls,  England's  fair  lilies,  Andalusians  brown, 
all  that  lovely  flock  of  mine. 

And  then  the  voice  of  your  souls  did  ask  of  you : 
^^How  did  you  do  to  have  more  women  than  Sultan 
ever  owned?  How  did  you  manage,  in  spite  of  bolts 
and  bars,  within  the  bed  of  lovely  maids  to  sleep  ?  You 
happy,  happy  Don  Juan  ! 

"  You  forgetful  victor,  a  single  one  of  those,  whose 
name  you  put  not  down,  one  of  your  least  fair,  your 
most  modest  flower ;  oh  !  how  well,  how  long,  we 
should  have  adored  her.  She  would  have  adorned, 
as  within  an  um  of  gold,  the  altar  of  our  heart. 

"  She  would  have  scented,  that  humble  violet  whose 
head  your  foot  within  the  grass  did  bow,  our  own  pale 
springtime.  We  should  have  picked  up,  and  wet  with 
our  tears  the  blue-eyed  star,  that  in  the  ball-room  had 
fallen  from  your  inconstant  hand. 

"  Oh  !  wondrous  tremors  of  the  fever  of  love ;  doves 
that  from  heaven  upon  the  lips  alight ;  kisses  so  bitter- 

3^^8 


SELECTED    POEMS 

sweet ;  last  veils  falling ;  and  you,  glorious  waves  of 
golden  hair,  flowing  over  shoulders  brown,  when  shall 
we  know  you  ?  " 

Ye  children  !  I  have  known  all  these  pleasures  you 
dream  of ;  round  the  fatal  tree  Eve's  serpent  of  eld  did 
not  more  closely  twine.  To  mortal  eyes  never  did 
human-headed  dragon  the  fruit  of  that  forbidden  tree 
make  shine  with  greater  brilliancy. 

For,  like  nests  of  finches  tame,  ready  their  flight  to 
take,  on  lips  I  've  caught  nests  of  timid  loves ;  within 
my  arms  phantoms  ravishing  I  've  pressed  j  many  a 
blooming  virgin  upon  me  has  outpoured  the  purest 
balm  of  her  calyx  white. 

The  truth  to  find,  ye  cunning  courtesans,  I  've  pressed 
under  the  rouge  your  lips  more  worn  than  stones  upon 
the  road.  Ye  loathsome  sewers,  to  which  flow  the  whole 
world's  streams,  within  your  depths  I  've  plunged  ;  and 
thou,  Debauch  so  foul,  thy  morrows  I  have  known. 

I  've  seen  the  purest  brows  prostrate  sink,  once  the 
orgy  done,  amid  the  outpoured  wine  upon  the  cloth  red- 
stained.     I  have  seen  the  close  of  balls,  and  arms  per- 


THE    COMEDY    OF    DEATH 

spiring,  and   pallid    faces  more  wan  than  death  under 
their  rumpled  hair  when  rose  the  sun. 

Like  the  miner  who  works  an  oreless  vein,  by  day, 
by  night  the  depths  of  life  I  Ve  searched,  and  never 
struck  the  lead.  I  've  asked  of  love  the  life  it  gives, 
but  all  in  vain;  and  ne'er  on  earth  have  I  affection  felt 
for  one  who  bore  a  name. 

Many  a  heart  I  've  burned,  and  on  its  ashes  trod ; 
but  like  the  salamander,  cold  amid  the  flames  I  did 
remain.  I  had  mine  own  ideal  —  fresh  as  dew,  a 
vision  golden,  an  opal,  by  God's  own  glance  iridescent 
made; 

A  woman,  such  as  sculptor  never  wrought ;  herself 
a  Cleopatra  and  a  Mary  too,  in  modesty,  grace,  and 
beauty  all ;  a  mystic  rose,  wherein  no  worm  did  lurk ; 
a  burning  volcano  to  stainless  purity  of  snow  allied  ! 

At  the  fateful  parting  of  the  ways,  Pythagoras'  Y, 
the  left  road  't  was  I  took  ;  and  though  onward  I  travel, 
yet  the  bourne  I  never  reach.  Deceitful  Sensuality! 
't  was  thou  I  followed,  and  it  may  be  that  the  riddle  of 
life  could  be  solved,  O  Virtue,  by  thee  alone ! 

320 


SELECTED    POEMS 

Why  did  I  not,  like  Faust,  within  my  cell  so  dark, 
gaze  on  the  wall  at  trembling  shadow  of  microcosm 
golden  ?  Why  did  I  not,  books  of  old  and  magic 
works  reading,  by  my  furnace  pass  the  darkness'  hours 
in  seeking  pleasure  ? 

Strong  was  my  mind :  I  could  have  read  thy  book 
and  drunk  thy  bitter  wine,  O  Science,  without  being 
intoxicate,  as  young  student  well  may.  I  should  have 
forced  Isis  her  veil  to  remove,  and  from  heaven's 
heights  brought  down  the  stars  within  my  sombre 
room. 

Listen  not  to  Love,  an  evil  teacher  he.  To  love  is 
not  to  know ;  to  live  is  to  know.  So  learn,  and  learn 
still  more.  Cast  and  cast  again  the  lead,  and  plunge 
yet  deeper  down  within  the  depths  profound  than  did 
your  elders  e'er. 

Let  Leviathan  through  its  nostrils  blow ;  let  the 
weight  of  the  seas  within  your  breasts  your  lungs  sharp 
pierce.  Hunt  through  the  black  reefs  that  no  man  yet 
has  known,  and  in  its  casket  golden  the  ring  of  Solomon 
perchance  you  '11  find. 

»i  321 


THE    COMEDY    OF    DEATH 

VIII 

Thus  spake  Don  Juan,  and  under  the  icy  arch, 
wearied,  but  resolved  the  end  to  reach,  I  took  my 
way  again.  At  last  I  entered  on  a  gloomy  plain  which 
a  fiery  sky  on  the  boundless  horizon  closed  with  circle 
of  carmine. 

The  soil  of  the  plain  was  ivory  white,  and  cut  by 
a  river  like  a  silken  band  of  richest  red.  It  was  level 
all ;  nor  wood,  nor  church,  nor  tower ;  and  the  weary 
wind  swept  it  with  its  wings  and  uttered  plaintive 
moans. 

A  first  I  thought  the  tint  so  strange,  the  blood-red 
hue  with  which  the  stream  thus  flushed  was  but  some 
reflection  faint ;  that  chalk  and  tufa  formed  that  ivory 
white.  But  as  I  bent  to  drink,  I  saw  it  was  real  blood 
indeed  that  flowed. 

I  saw  that  with  whitened  bones  the  earth  was 
covered  o'er,  a  chill  snow-fall  of  death,  where  no  green 
plant,  no  flower,  did  grow ;  that  the  soil  was  made  of 
the  dust  of  men,  and  that  people  enough  Thebes,  Pal- 
myra, and  Rome  to  fill  were  sleeping  there. 

322 


SELECTED    POEMS 

A  shadow  with  bowed  back,  bent  brow,  passed  with 
the  wind.  He  it  was  unmistakably,  with  coat  of  gray 
and  little  hat.  An  eagle  golden  over  his  head  did  soar, 
seeking,  thereon  to  rest,  anxious,  bewildered,  the 
standard's  staff. 

The  skeletons  sought  to  put  on  their  heads ;  the 
spectral  drummer  its  sticks  rattled  in  time  with  His 
sovereign  step ;  a  clamour  vast  rose  as  he  passed,  and 
cannons  countless  roared  in  the  storm  their  triumphal 
brazen  blast. 

He  seemed  not  the  tumult  to  hear,  and  like  a  marble 
god,  of  its  worship  careless,  walked  on  in  silence  sunk. 
Sometimes  only,  as  if  by  stealth,  his  eyes  looked  up 
and  sought  in  heaven  his  star  now  fallen. 

But  the  heavens,  purple  with  the  conflagration's 
light,  showed  never  a  star,  and  the  growing  flames 
kept  rising  and  rising  higher.  —  Then,  paler  still  than 
when  in  the  St.  Helena  of  old,  his  arms  upon  his 
breast  he  crossed,  full  of  muttered  moans. 

When  he  came  before  us,  "  Mighty  Emperor," 
said  I,  "  the  mysterious  word  which  fate  compels  me 
here  below  to  seek  ;  the  last  word  which  Faust  of  his 

323 


THE    COMEDY    OF    DEATH 

books  did  ask,  as  Don  Juan  of  love,  the  word  of  Death 
or  Life,  can  it  be  you  know  ? " 

—  "Oh!  wretched  child,"  said  the  imperial  shade, 
"  return  above.  Icy  cold  is  the  wind  and  chilled 
through  am  I.  Along  this  road  no  hostelry  you  will 
find  where  you  may  warm  your  feet,  for  Death  alone 
receives  those  who  this  way  pass. 

'*  Look,  *t  is  all  over.  The  star  eclipsed  is.  Black 
blood  falls  in  showers  from  my  eagle's  side,  wounded 
in  its  flight,  and  with  the  white  flecks  of  the  eternal 
snow  from  the  depths  of  the  sombre  skies  the  feathers 
of  its  wings  downward  flutter  to  the  ground. 

"  Alas !  your  desire  I  can  never  satisfy.  In  vain 
the  word  of  Life  have  I  sought,  like  Faust  and  Don 
Juan.  I  know  no  more  than  on  the  day  of  my  birth, 
and  yet,  in  the  heyday  of  my  power,  it  was  I  that 
made  the  calm  and  storm. 

"  Everywhere  I  was  called  above  all  men.  The 
Man.  Before  me  the  eagle  and  the  fasces  were  borne 
as  before  the  old  Roman  Caesars ;  there  were  ten  kings 
that  bore  my  train  ;  I  was  a  Charlemagne  within  a  single 
hand  the  globe  embracing. 


SELECTED    POEMS 

**  No  more  have  I  seen  from  the  top  of  that  column 
where  my  glory,  a  tri-coloured  rainbow,  gleams  than 
you  can  see  from  below.  In  vain  with  my  heel  I 
spurred  on  the  world ;  ever  rose  the  sound  of  camps 
and  the  roar  of  the  guns,  of  the  stress  of  battle  and 
storm. 

"  Ever  came  on  salvers  the  keys  of  the  towns,  ever 
a  concert  of  bugles  and  servile  cheers,  of  laurels  and 
speeches  ;  a  black  sky,  with  rain  of  shot,  dead  men 
to  salute  upon  the  battlefield,  —  thus  were  spent  my 
days. 

"  How  bitterly  did  your  sweet  honey  name,  oh  !  my 
mother,  Laetitia,  belie  my  fortune  woeful !  How 
wretched  I  !  Everywhere  I  bore  my  wandering  pain ; 
I  had  dreamed  of  Empire,  and  the  globe  of  earth  did 
hollow  sound  within  my  palm. 

"  Oh  !  for  the  lot  of  a  shepherd,  and  the  beech 
under  which  Tityrus  during  the  heat  of  the  day  with- 
draws and  sings  of  Amaryllis.  Oh  !  for  the  twinkling 
bell  and  the  bleating  flock,  the  pure  milk  flowing  from 
the  udder  white  between  the  fingers  fair. 

325 


THE    COMEDY    OF    DEATH 

"  Oh  !  for  the  scent  of  the  new-mown  hay  and  the 
smell  of  the  stable ;  for  the  brown  bread  of  the  herd 
and  for  nuts  on  the  table,  and  a  platter  of  wood  ! 
For  a  seven-hole  flute  put  together  with  wax,  and  of 
goats  half  a  dozen  —  that  the  sum  of  my  desire  j  I  who 
have  been  the  conqueror  of  kings. 

"  A  sheepskin  my  shoulders  shall  cover ;  Galatea 
laughing  shall  flee  to  the  reeds  and  I  pursue  her. 
Sweeter  than  ambrosia  shall  be  my  verse,  and 
Daphnis  shall  with  jealousy  pale  at  the  sound  of  the 
airs  I  shall  play. 

"  Oh !  I  long  to  go  to  my  Corsican  home ;  through 
the  wood  where  the  goats,  as  they  roam,  the  bark  of 
trees  nibble  ;  down  the  gullies  deep,  along  the  hollow 
way  where  cicada  shrilly  sings,  careless  in  its  wander- 
ing, my  ranging  flock  following. 

"  Pitiless  the  Sphinx  to  whomsoever  fails.  Impru- 
dent youth,  do  you  mean  that  it  shall  slay  you  and 
drink  the  purest  blood  of  your  heart  ?  The  only  one 
the  fatal  riddle  who  guessed  slew  his  father  Lalus,  and 
incest  committed.     Such  the  victor's  sad  reward !  " 


326 


X  dc  V  X  X  db  dr  X  X  db77ti?dpdbd?  tcxxtfcx  X 

SELECTED    POEMS 

IX 

Now  I  have  returned  from  that  sombre  voyage, 
where  through  the  darkness  for  torch  and  for  star  one 
has  but  the  eyes  of  the  owl ;  and,  as  after  a  day's  plough- 
ing the  buffalo  returns  with  slow  steps  and  worn,  and 
head  bowed  down,  I  go  with  shoulders  bowed. 

From  the  land  of  phantoms  I  have  returned,  but  still 
to  wear,  far  from  the  speechless  realms,  the  pallid  hue 
of  death.  My  vestments,  like  the  funeral  crape  cast 
upon  an  urn,  hang  limp  adown  my  frame  unto  the 
ground. 

I  have  escaped  from  the  hands  of  a  Death  greedier 
far  than  that  by  Lazarus'  tomb  which  watched,  for 
what  it  takes  it  keeps :  with  the  body  parts,  but  the 
soul  retains ;  the  torch  returns,  but  the  flame  puts  out ; 
and  Christ  Himself  would  powerless  prove. 

I  am  no  more,  alas !  but  the  shadow  of  myself ;  the 
living  tomb  wherein  lies  all  I  love ;  and  alone,  for  1 
survive  myself.  I  bear  about  with  me  the  ice-cold 
remains  of  my  illusions  —  lovely  dead  for  whom  I 
make  a  shroud. 

327 


THE    COMEDY    OF    DEATH 

I  am  yet  too  young;  I  must  love  and  live,  O 
Death  !  I  cannot  yet  resolve  to  follow  thee  adown  the 
darksome  way.  I  have  not  had  time  to  build  the 
column  on  which  Glory  my  crown  to-morrow  morn 
shall  hang.     O  Death,  do  thou  later  return ! 

Oh  !  white-breasted  virgin,  thy  poet  spare  !  Remem- 
ber, I  the  first  did  thee  make  more  beautiful  than  day. 
Thy  greenish  hue,  to  diaphanous  pallor  have  I  changed; 
under  glorious  dark  hair  thine  old  skull  concealed ;  and 
thee  have  I  courted. 

Oh !  let  me  live  a  while  and  thy  praise  I  '11  sing : 
thy  palaces  to  adorn,  angels  I  shall  carve  and  crosses 
forge.  Within  the  church  and  within  the  graveyard 
the  marble  I  '11  make  weep,  and  the  stones  shall  moan 
as  upon  a  regal  monument. 

I  shall  devote  to  thee  my  loveliest  songs;  ever  for 
thee  bouquets  of  immortelles  and  scentless  flowers  I  '11 
have.  My  garden,  O  Death,  with  thine  own  trees 
is  planted,  —  the  yew,  the  box,  the  cypress,  over  the 
marbles  twine  their  green-brown  boughs. 

I  tell  the  handsome  flowers,  sweet  glories  of  the  beds, 

the  lily  majestic  its  white  cup  opening,  the  tulip  golden, 

_ 


SELECTED    POEMS 

the  rose  of  May  the  nightingale  doth  love,  I  tell  the 
chrysanthemum,  too,  and  many  another  still, — 

Grow  ye  not  here ;  another  soil  now  seek,  ye  fresh 
springtime  loves  ;  for  this  garden  austere  your  brilliancy 
is  too  great.  The  holly's  painted  leaves  would  wound 
you  and  in  the  air  the  hemlock's  poison  you  'd  imbibe, 
and  bitter  scent  of  yew. 

Forsake  me  not,  O  Mother,  O  Nature  !  A  time  of 
youth  thou  owest  to  every  creature ;  a  season  of  love  to 
every  soul.  I  still  am  young  and  yet  feel  the  chill 
of  age;  I  cannot  love.  Let  me  have  my  youth  if 
but  for  a  single  day. 

Be  no  stepmother  to  me,  O  Nature  beloved.  Let 
some  sap  return  to  the  faded  plant  that  hates  to  die. 
The  torrent  from  mine  eyes  with  its  tears  has  drowned 
its  worm-eaten  bud  which  sunshine  does  not  dry  and 
which  fails  to  bloom. 

O  virgin  air,  O  crystal  air,  O  water,  principle  of 
this  world !  Earth,  that  feedest  all !  and  thou,  fertile 
flame,  a  beam  from  God's  own  eye  !  let  not  die  yet,  ye 
who  life  bestow,  the  poor  drooping  flower  that  seeks  no 
more  than  for  a  brief  time  to  blow. 

329 


THE    COMEDY    OF    DEATH 

Stars  that  from  above  behold  the  whirling  worlds, 
rain  down  on  me  from  your  lashes  golden  your  diamond 
tears !  Moon,  lily  of  the  night,  flower  of  the  garden 
divine,  pour  thy  rays  upon  me,  O  fair  solitary,  from 
the  uttermost  depths  of  heaven  ! 

Eye  ever  open  in  the  centre  of  space,  do  thou  pierce, 
O  mighty  Sun,  the  passing  cloud,  and  that  I  may  see 
thee  once  more  let  the  eagles  through  the  heavens  that 
swoop  on  mighty  wing,  the  griffins  that  fiery  fly,  the 
swallows  swift,  to  me  their  wings  now  lend ! 

Ye  Winds !  that  from  the  flowers  their  soul's  per- 
fume steal  and  avowals  of  love  from  lips  beloved ;  pure 
Air  of  the  Mountains,  still  full  of  the  scent  of  the 
balsam  j  Breeze  of  the  Ocean  which  one  breathes  so 
free,  my  lungs  now  fill ! 

April  has  made  for  me  a  grassy  carpet  whereon  to 
lie  ;  above  my  brow  the  lilac  blooms  in  clusters  great, 
for  now  is  springtime  come.  Take  me  within  your 
arms,  sweet  poet's  dreams ;  between  your  polished 
breasts  my  poor  head  rest,  and  cradle  me  long. 

Be  far  from  me,  nightmares,  spectres  of  the  nights  ! 
Roses,  women,  songs,  — -  all  things  fair  and  loves  glori- 

33° 


************************ 

SELECTED    POEMS 

ous,  —  these  are  what  I  want.  Hail !  O  Antiquity's 
Muse,  Muse  with  the  fresh  green  bays  and  tunic  white, 
that  younger  art  every  day  ! 

Brown  with  lotus  eyes ;  fair  with  eyelash  black,  O 
Grecian  girl  of  Miletus,  upon  the  ivory  stool  place  thy 
fair  bare  feet,  and  with  golden  nectar  let  the  cup  be 
filled.  To  thy  beauty  first  I  drink,  Theone  white,  and 
then  to  the  gods  unknown. 

More  lascivious  and  yielding  than  the  wave,  thy 
bosom  is !  Milk  is  not  whiter,  nor  apple  rounder. 
Come,  one  sweet  kiss !  Make  haste,  make  haste,  for 
our  life,  O  Theone,  is  a  winged  steed  by  Time 
spurred  on.     Let  us  hasten  our  life  to  use. 

Shout,  lo.  Paean  !  .  .  .  But  who  is  this  woman  under 
her  veil  so  pale  ?  Why,  't  is  thou,  infamous  hag  I  I 
can  see  thy  skull  so  bare,  thy  great  orbless  sockets, 
loathsome  prostitute !  eternal  courtesan  !  clasping  the 
world  with  thine  arms  so  lean. 


331 


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